


Eromenos

by IDetestTragedy



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Romance, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IDetestTragedy/pseuds/IDetestTragedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Xanxus, Squalo and the rest of the Varia met in the previous life in Archaic Greece?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eromenos

**Author's Note:**

> The story takes place two centuries after the Trojan War. The cities are governed separately rather than as one nation (the unification of Greece is under Alexander the Great, centuries later). Eretria is located in the island of Euboea. Sardis is the capital of Lydia, which would later be conquered by the Persians in 498 BC. The First Persian War broke out in autumn 490 BC, with the destruction of Eretria as its prelude, and continues with the Persians confronting the Athenians at Marathon.  
> The festival for Dionysus is in the month of Elaphebolion (end of March). The most famous festival in honour of the god of wine and theatre was called 'Greater Dionysia,' involving theatrical plays as well as processions in Athens from sixth century BC onwards. The festival for Dionysus in this fic is none so grand; elaborate drama props and performances had not been invented.  
> Criophorus = 'Bearing a Ram' — one of Hermes' epithets  
> Argeiphontes = 'Slayer of Argus' — one of Hermes' epithets  
> Selene = goddess of the moon  
> Helios = god of the sun (Helios Hyperionides means Helios son of Hyperion)  
> Eos = goddess of the dawn  
> Hemera = goddess of the day  
> Nyx = goddess of the night  
> Boreas = god of the northern wind  
> Notus = god of the southern wind  
> Hypnos = winged god of sleep  
> Somnos = winged god of death  
> Cydoemus = the personification of the din of battle, confusion, uproar and hubbub  
> Androktasiai = the female personifications of manslaughter  
> Themis = goddess of justice  
> Eilythia = goddess of childbirth]  
> Uranus = the sky, the father of the titans and the grandfather of the gods  
> Tyche = blind goddess of fortune  
> Acheron = muddy river of sorrow in the underworld through which the dead need to cross  
> Pyriphlegethon = river of blazing fire in the underworld  
> Horn of Amalthea = Horn of Plenty / Cornucopia; Amalthea is the nanny goat who nursed baby Zeus  
> Condylos = a middle joint of finger unit of measurement, i.e. 38.6 mm  
> Plethron = 100 Attic feet, i.e. 29.6 m  
> Dichas = half foot, i.e. 14.9 cm  
> Chitoniskos = a knee-length chiton  
> Chiton = a woollen, linen or silk tunic, usually fastened with a girdle called 'zone' as well as brooches  
> Himation = a rectangular piece of cloth, frequently made of wool and can be used as a unisex mantle (usually slung over the left shoulder) or a female veil  
> Chlamys = a rectangular blanket-like woollen material, pinned at the right shoulder and often worn as travelling cloak by young men  
> Exomis = a tunic made of two rectangles of linen, which were stitched together from the sides to form a cylinder, leaving enough space at the top for the head and arms, seamed at the left shoulder so the right hand passed through the head opening  
> Karbatinai [sgl. karbatinos] = shoes of undressed hide, brogues, made of a single piece of oxhide, so that sole and upper leather were all in one, and tied on with thongs  
> Peplos = a simple sleeveless dress of made of wool, linen or silk, made of one large rectangular piece of cloth, but was formed into a cylinder and then folded along the topline into a deep cuff, creating an apoptygma, or capelet-like overfold  
> Xystis = a charioteer's chiton which covered all the way to the ankles  
> Proknemes [sgl. proknemis] = greaves  
> Petasos = large brimmed hat  
> Talaria = winged sandals  
> Hydria = a water jug with three handles  
> Eromenos [pl. eromenoi] = an adolescent boy who was in a love relationship with an adult man, known as the erastes. The term for the role often varied from one polis to another. In Athens, the eromenos was also known as the paidika; in Sparta they used aites (hearer),a term also used in Thessaly; in Crete the boys were known as kleinos (glorious)and if they had fought in battle with their lover, as parastathenes (one who stands beside). Eromenoi were generally males aged twelve to seventeen. Upon reaching the age of maturity (ca. eighteen years), the eromenos would cut his long hair and become eligible for taking on the role of erastes and courting and winning an eromenos of his own.  
> Erastes [pl. erastae] = an adult male involved in a pederastic relationship with an adolescent boy called the eromenos. Erastes, 'lover', was in particular an Athenian term for this role. Other terms were, in Sparta, eispnelas, 'inspirer,' and in Crete, philetor, 'befriender.'  
> Striges = winged demoness with avian talons who fed off the blood and entrails of children

PROLOGUE

'HELL NO!'

'Since when do you defy _my_ order, scum?'

Squalo offered no further verbal reply, but his furious gaze fixed on the bleeding man lying on the floor before him.

His boss and himself were in their forties; even Xanxus' Liger and Squalo's Heavy Rain Shark were not invulnerable against intricate traps and a superior number of enemies. An invasion from the Capra Famiglia cost the Varia serious wounds. The enemies were taken down in the end, but they left a parting gift: a time bomb. Under Fran's supervision, the remaining Varia members and their subordinates had been evacuated from their headquarters. However, amidst the chaotic battles all around, nobody had noticed that Xanxus' gravely injured legs and liver prevented him from moving. That is, apart from one silver-haired man.

'I said get out of here!' Xanxus repeated his demand with a glare.

The Varia swordsman wouldn't budge from the floor he was sitting on, even though the injuries on his shoulder, arm and chest would still allow him to escape. For eight long years, he had only been able to stare helplessly at the impregnable shell of ice which confined the raven-haired man; he was not going to lose him again.

The air sweltered; Xanxus brought forth his Flame of Wrath. Predictably, compared to his usual ones, this flame was diminutive in scale and power—a dying man's final attempt.

Squalo did not even blink when Xanxus' fist was an inch away from the pit of his stomach.

Gradually, the flame died down. Xanxus' fist opened and his index finger crooked back and forth towards himself twice. Only then did the Varia leader find better luck with his right-hand man's obedience.

Obliged to follow the unspoken 'Come here!,' Squalo knelt. His broken ribs tormented him as he bent, but the strokes of the older man's breath on his jaw line compensated for the agony.

It seemed like his boss was about to say something, but the Varia's second-in-command was familiar with the other's awkwardness in conveying words of comfort. Hence, he did him a favour by sealing Xanxus' lips with his own.

As the seconds ticked by, memories of youth swam through their minds—how often they beat each other and quarrelled for petty things, and how often those fights ended up in bed or sofa or car hood or private jet seat or cruise ship cabin or swimming pool or sandy beach or alleyway or… Yet, for the two men drenched in blood, there was no moment more precious than now.

Judging from his considerable loss of blood, Squalo knew that his chance of survival, even if the bomb did not detonate, was not that great. He might pull through if Lussuria's healing power was at hand but the _okama_ was on a mission with Belphegor and Leviathan in another town right now.

As Squalo rested his head on Xanxus' shoulder, he felt an inflating and deflating diaphragm underneath him, but the breathing weakened by the second. For one of the rare occasions in their lifetime, his boss did not refuse. Perhaps the older man was too tired to bicker or perhaps his wounds were even more serious than they seemed ... it didn't matter now. At least he'd die in a battle at Xanxus' side, thought Squalo, and what jackpot could fucking compare to that?

The Sword Emperor closed his eyes with peace of mind. Slowly, gradually, something he had never seen before, yet somehow not unfamiliar, visualised in his mind.

* * *

CHAPTER I

**The Torture Chamber**

'Once again, let me ask you, scum, where is Prince Xanxus?'

' _Scum.' Why did it sound so differently from the one spoken by the Prince of Lydia?_

Despite his thought, no word came out from the silver-haired man's mouth. Hands and feet shackled to the four parts of the wall, skin covered in bruises and injuries, starved and dehydrated, the man still held his pride.

'It seems that punches and lashes are too light for you,' his torturer observed, speaking in a falsely soft-spoken manner as he threw a spiked whip into one corner of the small, musty room.

There was only a single barred window located high on the stone wall, from which a small allowance of air made its way back and forth from the outside world. In the dancing flame of torchlight, the prisoner could see the man in grey _chitoniskos_ now drawing the sword from his belt, its blade of iron glinting in demand for blood.

A broad grin graced the torturer's face, animosity laced throughout his voice. 'Let's see if the Fates will still allow you to lead the Eretrian army with one less arm, _General_ Squalo.'

The so-called Squalo flinched not. He had long known how this man, seven years his elder, grew contemptuous of his achievements. Unlike many other boys of his age, Squalo son of Polymedes had always devoted his spare time to martial arts, particularly sword practice. The reward of his labour-coated skills was the appointment to be the general of the entire army some fifteen months ago, on his twenty-third winter. The man who stood before him, Aristomedon son of Neocles, had trodden down the military path long before Squalo had, but became his mere adjutant.

Now, Aristomedon deemed, came the long-awaited chance to get rid of the boulder in his stream. Swinging the sword with all his might, Aristomedon sliced Squalo's right arm without hesitation. The cut was swift, yet its pain engulfed the prisoner's whole being; it overwrote the stiffness and soreness of his body from being tied up so long. There was no time for the chopped flesh and bone to dangle from their former host; they simply dropped. No scream. No groan. No plea for mercy. Only ragged breathings and blood—the spatters of blood that tainted the wall and floor crimson…

… and the shatters of the dream of becoming the greatest swordsman in the world.

'What a pleasant thing your miserable state is to look upon!' spat the beefy Aristomedon triumphantly as he trampled the arm that had been separated from the rest of its owner's body. He laughed heartily upon seeing the spirit of life in Squalo's eyes die down as the bloodied flesh from the chopped arm scattered on the floor. But this was not enough. He came closer and breathed next to the younger man's ear, 'How is it to have a subordinate feast upon your defeat, eh, _General_?'

The dispirited man gave him no response. Hence, Aristomedon whistled to summon the dungeon guard dog. Trained to prevent prisoner escape to the point of ripping the prospective escapees to pieces, the ferocious dog was strictly fed raw meat alone. Soundlessly, he trod the cold stone floor and within seconds, he was already outside the torture chamber.

Cold sweat dripped down Squalo's skin when he noticed a pair of black eyes and a coat of brown slipping inside. It was for this purpose that Aristomedon had purposely left the door unlocked. With sheer delight, the vice-commander of the army kicked his general's severed arm near the canine's maw and declared, 'Your dinner, Sklerophagus.'

The hungry dog accepted the meal with enthusiasm, and the true owner of the flesh could do nothing but watch. Incisors shredded every sinew, ignoring the blood that spurted with each gnaw. Sklerophagus devoured the meat _in situ_ and carried the bones outside with him as chew toys after he finished.

Yet, this was not enough. Aristomedon poked the tip of his blood-bathed sword onto Squalo's throat, and then slid it slowly down to the prisoner's wounded arm, where the disjointed part was, piercing at one particular tendon. More sweat drenched Squalo; still, the tormented man refused to admit defeat.

The door of the torture chamber flung open, revealing the figure of a middle-aged man in a woollen _chiton_ embellished with gold embroidery. At any other day, he was a king who reigned with a mild temper; the expression he wore now, contrarily, was that of such obvious resentment and fury. 'Aristomedon, what madness is this?! Who gave you the permission to impair _my_ general permanently?!'

Aristomedon's countenance blanched as fear seized him; it was no secret that the dauntless son of Polymedes was the king's favourite officer. 'Pardon me, my liege. As expected from our glorious general, this man proved to be most adamant and I lost my temper.'

But King Imbrasus was beyond irate: his most outstanding _product_ was irreparable. He roared, 'GUARDS!'

The moment the four armed men came into view, he beckoned one of them, 'You, send a medic over here now!'

The soldier spurred his feet while the king addressed the remaining three, 'Bring this ingrate to the _agora_ , tie him down and pour five cauldrons of boiling water over his body tomorrow at noon! Make sure our people are watching and let them learn that no man of hubris is welcomed to my hall! No meal is to be given to him until then!'

The king's tongue spoke no idle confabulation; each word had its own distinct weight. Hair stiffened with fear, Aristomedon lowered his body to hold the middle-aged man's beard and kiss his feet in a supplicating manner. 'O my godly king, most honourable son of Autophontes, I beseech you: would you show some mercy considering that I have served Eretria all these years?'

His lord peered at him with an unquenched displeasure and announced, 'Six cauldrons it is then!'

Aristomedon's pleas remained audible, drifting through the hall, even after the guards dragged him away from the torture chamber, away from King Imbrasus' sight. They ran into the royal medic, who was escorted by the other guard.

'Stop his bleeding!' instructed the king as soon as the medic entered the torture chamber.

The man opened his medical bag at once and began to work. The potion he used to coagulate Squalo's blood stung so much that the general had to clench his jaw.

'Look at you,' remarked the king, heavy at heart, his anger subsided and was replaced by compassion, as he glanced at the prisoner's amputated arm and swollen face, owing to the number of punches he had received earlier. 'On one hand, so strong-willed; on the other, piteous.' The middle-aged man sighed before continuing.

'You see, Squalo, I have no son. The Olympian gods have blessed me with six charming daughters, each no less graceful than their queenly mother. Rather than having a stranger to rule beloved Eretria, wouldn't it be far better if my son-in-law is a man who can _and_ does appreciate the beauty of Eretria, a man who truly loves the entirety of Eretria, rather than merely the Eretrian throne?

Now, you may not be an Eretrian by birth, but you are as good as one. As a baby, you were found at the mercy of the waves on the shore by some fishermen. Poseidon the Earthshaker must love you so dearly to keep you safe and sound. Some even dared say that you were born out of the union between the sea god and a mortal woman or a nymph. Happy is he whom the deathless gods hold dear! Not only have you been endowed with such opulent beauty since birth, but you are also showered with talents towering the youths around your age as you grow up. Your achievements, Squalo, are no mere trinkets to Eretria: you have conquered several regions along the shores of the Peloponnese. No son of man snatched victory from you in a single combat. You have even become the general of my entire army at such a young age, rising from a mere fisherman's adoptive son into what you are now. I'd even bet a thousand drachma that no Achaian soldier has not heard of your illustrious name.

Now think of this, lad: my eldest daughter, Callipylia of the slim ankle, is at a marriageable age. Beauteous as she is, many a suitor has sought for her hand; yet, nobody won my favour, for I have set my eyes upon you.'

At this point, Squalo's eyes widened: never had had it occurred to him before that his lord king had intended to make him Xanxus' future brother-in-law. After all, the throne of Eretria had never been handed down to a non-royal blood throughout the ages.

The king continued, 'Let me speak a word of counsel to your heart. Immeasurable kudos you have brought upon this kingdom and you _can_ continue serving Eretria. What need of you to lay your loyalty in a barbarian whose skin differs from ours, whose tongue speaks harsh words and whose gods are none but empty idolatry before the goodly race of Hellas?'

Why, Squalo asked himself, why indeed need he be loyal to Xanxus at any rate? His lord king was generous enough to offer him the throne of Eretria, along with the eldest princess. Furthermore, the foreigner's wellbeing should not have aught to do with him. _What for?_ He questioned himself again. The copulations? They were no more than evanescent pleasure; surely there are many fish in the sea who could easily replace him. The friendship? Did Xanxus even consider him as a friend? So why?

'My lord king, with all respect, why did you plan to entrust your second eldest daughter in this foreigner's hands if he displeases you so much?'

'O son of Polymedes, are you not familiar with political marriages, young as you are? Be that as it may, as a general, surely you know about the Lydians' military strength? Allying ourselves to them is tantamount to guaranteeing our victories in the upcoming wars. A mere woman is a cheap price to pay for such alliance.'

Squalo stared in disbelief. Was this the true nature of the king he had served heretofore? Or perhaps this was the _proper_ nature of all kings?

'Heed my words, lad. You have a bright future lying before you; why ruin it? Just tell this old man where that blasted foreigner is and you shall be freed.' The king grasped his general's intact hand as he spoke.

'His whereabouts is unknown to me.' Squalo gave the same answer.

A look of anger and anguish filled the older man's countenance. He clenched his fists momentarily, before raising his palms into three short claps. In response to this, the door swung open to reveal the figure of a blacksmith. In his sturdy hand, nestled a prong of which end glowed like ember.

'Give answer or this tongue of red-hot iron shall question you,' warned the king. Behind him, the blacksmith came closer, the metal in his hand sizzling vociferously.

'I cannot tell you what is not within my knowledge; all I know is that the Prince of Lydia never laid his hands on any of your daughters.'

When the heated iron marred the skin of Squalo's stomach with a strident hiss, the former general bit his lip so hard that it bled. Not daring to remove the metal until the king gave him the permission, the blacksmith did his duty with downcast eyes, silently lamenting the demise of Eretrian hero.

Afterwards, King Imbrasus heaved a deep sigh and closed the black door behind him, leaving Squalo in the company of silence once again.

Squalo gritted his teeth. He had refused to show his agonised state before any other man, but now that he was alone, he could weep to his heart's content. The stinging cuts and bruises on his skin—he had received more than two hundred lashes before he lost count on them—could only hurt him on the surface. So did the excruciating wound from his detached arm. These wounds were shallow enough compared to the one in his aching heart. He had promised both himself and his late father to be the strongest swordsman in the world. Being nothing more than a dismal remnant of his former glory, would he ever be able to return to be the man he used to be, a lord-of-war whom others feared above all men? Now, thanks to the absence of his dominant arm, the aspiration would surely become no more than a broken dream.

The son of Polymedes discoursed within himself. He still did not know why he took Xanxus' side, why he trusted this man or why he had become so attached to this foreigner. Truth be told, the ex-general failed to understand how a single man weighed over his entire homeland. And yet, he found his heart devoid of regret. All the bite marks he received from Xanxus would wash away in time, yet the shared passion within them would remain indelible from his mind.

Squalo gazed at the dungeon ceiling for a while before resigning to close his eyes. Whether he liked it or not, his devotion for the foreign prince had grown usuriously.

Xanxus, the Prince of Sardis, was betrothed to the fair-tressed Callithoe, the second eldest princess of Eretria. The prince was supposed to claim his bride and then carry her off to Sardis. However, this changed when the youngest princess, the rosy-cheeked Callipolyxo, was murdered. As the only foreigners who were admitted to the palace at present, Xanxus and his escorts became the main suspects of the assassination.

Squalo recalled the first time they met.

###

It was a warm sunny day in the spring when the leaves begin to reappear on the vine, in the month of _Elaphebolion_ when Squalo patrolled down the agora. Being the day before the festival of Dionysus, the marketplace was more packed than in ordinary days, since many wealthy people bought meat and wine for the sacrificial offerings. Amidst the busy vendors who were attending to the buyers who crowded around them, pointing at the products they wished to purchase, there surely must be some who became easy victims to pickpockets.

Nothing was out of the ordinary until he heard a woman screaming 'THIEF! THIEF!'

Squalo hurried off to the screamer's direction. 'Which one is the thief?'

'He was clothed in black and he went that way.' Face blanched at her sudden misfortune, the woman in bright brown _himation_ pointed at the alleyway between the Temple of Hermes and a pawnshop further down the road.

Into the dark alley, the general ran, but nobody was within his sight until he emerged from the alley's other end, where he bumped into a man whose raven-coloured hair was adorned with avian feathers and was wearing a peculiar vesture that was unmistakably black.

'YOU!' Squalo demanded while grabbing him by upper back portion of the fabric, 'Return the woman's money at once!'

The man turned to face him, displaying scars across his face. He seemed to be two or three years older than Squalo. There was a quizzical gleam in the man's eyes, but all that mattered to the army general was that this stranger dared to parry off his hand in resistance.

'Looking for trouble, scum?' A vexed remark took wing from the stranger's mouth.

'You're the one who's looking for trouble here, creep!'

Squalo aimed his fist at the stranger's solar plexus. Unexpectedly, the raven caught the fist and held it firmly with pure strength.

Just as Squalo raised his other hand to punish the bandit, four knives flew passed him, two by his strings of silver hair and the other two landed near his feet. Behind the scar-faced man were four others.

The first one, who was probably the eldest, wore effeminate draperies and a pomegranate pink blindfold. Strangely enough, he carried no walking stick. He did not even seem to have any trouble seeing _through_ the blindfold. _But then what does he wear the blindfold for?_ Squalo wondered.

Another, which was the tallest of them all, wore an iconoclastic hairdo and a thin moustache. He was the only one among them to wear beard and was slightly younger than the blindfolded man. His body was draped in a _chlamys_ travelling cloak.

The third figure was a beautiful lank golden-haired youth of eighteen. Judging from the knives in his hands, he was the one who had just thrown the former four knives.

The last one, who was hooded in frog-like attire, was a mere child who could not be more than twelve years old. At the first sight, Squalo considered the possibility of him being a hostage, but then, he decided that the little boy's posture was far too relaxed to be one.

'You've brought accomplices,' snarled Squalo, 'Bah, not that it matters anyway. I'll be through in all five of you a few minutes!'

With a flick of his nimble fingers, Squalo picked the nearest knife that was embedded onto the wall behind him and sent it flying back to its owner.

The tallest man moved swiftly to shield the one with the avian feather, who apparently was their leader.

The youth—Squalo's target—dodged, and the knife barely missed his cheek by a _condylos_. The metal circlet on his head glinted so brilliantly in the sunlight, but not as bright as the smile, or sneer, to be precise, that only visited him when he found a worthy opponent.

'By order of the King of Eretria, all of you are to hold back force!'

The two opposing sides halted their steps. Turning their heads, they perceived a throng of officials in palatial uniforms, two of which were bearing the flags of his employer's family crest. Squalo recognised the speaker: the man who stood foremost of the line was none other than the royal chamberlain himself.

The chamberlain hailed, 'Welcome to Eretria, exalted son of Xanthias who delights in wild beasts. My master, the King of Eretria, has ordained us to escort you to the palace. I see the grace of heaven vouchsafed you in great abundance while crossing the salty sea on your way here. How may I serve you?'

The chamberlain glimpsed at Squalo, who was still standing with utmost indignation. 'General, you are also required to bow to the prince.'

'What prince?' Squalo scoffed, 'He speaks with the tongue of a commoner!'

With his usual pompous voice, the chamberlain gestured towards the leader and made his reply, 'This man here is the Prince of Lydia as well as the guest of our lord king, and must be treated as such.'

A comprehension dawned on Squalo; if the stranger was indeed of no Argive origin, no wonder his accent was coarse like a peasant's rather than eloquent like a nobleman's. Nonetheless, he had no intention to honour the man with whom he had just quarrelled, denying the royal guest even the smallest apology for his wrong accusation about the theft. Thence, the Eretrian general departed with no more words.

* * *

CHAPTER II

**A Reception for the Lydian Prince**

The Prince of Lydia and his followers were escorted with respect to the Eretrian palace, where King Imbrasus welcomed them with his hospitality.

That night, the king was giving a banquet for Dionysus. The hall was filled with men of various ranks, from the king himself to the low palatial officers as well as the foreign guests. Succulent meats were skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent banquet. Fresh fruits were sliced and punctiliously arranged to bedeck gold and silver platters.

Xanxus watched in silence as the royal steward supervised two nude servant boys heaving a large _dinos_ jarful of ice into the hall, from which one of them then drew out a _psychter_ wine cooler. Into a _krater,_ the mellow wine and gleaming water from a _hydria_ were mixed. With a _kyathos,_ the diluted wine was ladled into many an _oenochoe_ and served to the guests' stemless _kylikes_ silver cups.

The king stepped forward with a _phiale_ sacrificial vessel in hand and poured a libation to the gods. However, even during incantation of prayer, Squalo found it impossible not to steal a glance every now and then at the guest of honour. The men who sat near him commented how stately Xanxus looked despite the scars on his face. Squalo clenched his fists; to him, Xanxus looked stately _because_ _of_ those scars. When their eyes met, a smirk graced Xanxus's lips and Squalo pretended to pay his attention to the hung tapestry on the wall behind Xanxus. It was rich in colour, a culmination of meticulosity depicting Dionysus, the satyrs and the maenads with the canopy of luscious grape vines looming over them.

As was customary, the only females present were hired companions known as _hetaeirai_. At the centre of the mosaic floor, a dozen of these hetaeirai were playing _auloi_ , while a dozen others set their nimble feet in a rapturous dance in accompaniment to the melodious tunes. Not far from them, on a stool by a pillar of the close-fitted roof, sat a bard, waiting for his turn to entertain the guests when the dance was completed. The song that the bard had chosen began with a hymn to the gods and continued with the great deeds of Theseus.

Squalo had been requesting refills more than his usual drinking capacity when the bard sang about the retrieval of Aegeus' sword and sandals from under a huge rock at Troezen; the killing of Periphetes at Epidaurus; the outwitting of Sinis at Cenchreae; the sow of Crommyon; the execution of Sciron; the crushing of Cercyon at Eleusis; the punishment of Procrustes; the slaying of the monstrous bull at Marathon; and the labyrinthine combat against the Cretan Minotaur. Squalo had to excuse himself for lavatorial relief when the bard sang of Theseus' fight against the fifty Pallantidae, and when he returned, the song had progressed to the hero's war against the Amazons.

The more Squalo stole occasional glances at Xanxus, the more irked he became—frustrated because the prince's lips were too far to touch, in the opposite side of the room. He could only demand the refill of his cup even more frequently when the bard sang the tale of fellowship between the Athenian Theseus and the Lapith Pirithous. Originally, having heard of Theseus' illustrious name, Pirithous had decided to test the hero's might by stealing the latter's cattle at Marathon. At their first encounter, the two men were astonished by each other's beauty. Pirithous declared himself Theseus' slave, but Theseus offered him his friendship instead.

Again, the Lydian Prince found the Eretrian general's behaviour amusing, and another smug grin lingered on his scarred face, aware though he was that this gesture has set the King of Eretria's nostrils to flare indignantly. The king had presumed the grin to be a sneer of mockery to Theseus' labours, if not the Greek culture on the whole, no doubt; for soon, the middle aged ruler rose from his cushioned seat and announced, 'Let the bard cease singing.'

Then the king of the land turned to address his raven-haired guest, 'Come. You must have far more laudatory heroic stories, o son of Xanthias, exceeding in strength. Keep them not for yourselves; even the noblest deed dies if suppressed in silence.'

No trace of fear drained the foreigner's countenance. He merely snapped his fingers and one of his followers, the golden-haired youth with an orihalcon circlet on his who had thrown the knives towards Squalo earlier that afternoon, rose from his seat. 'May I borrow a lyre?'

'How malapert! The king asked the Prince of Lydia to tell the story, _not_ his attendant!' one of the officers mouthed a stentorian stricture.

Xanxus began to speak in Lydian language, but after just one sentence, all the Achaeans in the hall showed no sign of comprehension. Hence, the foreign prince switched his Lydian speech into Archaic Greek and challenged, 'Still want me to tell the tale?'

'As you will,' said the Eretrian king, 'May it please you to appoint one of your men who is more familiar with the Argive tongue.'

Thus, with a reverent bow, the bard handed the boy his lyre. It was not long before the youth's dainty fingers plucked each string flawlessly and began to sing. His voice was so clear and pleasant that a hush fell upon the crowd, absorbing all who listened like an engulfing storm. Many eyes were drawn to him, and many hearts craved to embrace the beautiful face of his, each wavered with desire to hear his enrapturing voice moaning when they grinded his fragile body underneath their own.

The lad sang how the Prince of Lydia had a passion for travelling and met each of his followers in a different island. Together they then ventured to faraway lands. But when he intoned the rodomontade of the taming of a strange beast called 'liger'—a mixed breed between a lion and a tiger, one of the bibulous banqueters mocked the song, 'No such beast exists … _hic …_ If it does … _hic_ … I would be Hephaestus in disguise … _hic_.'

This remark was well-accepted, and soon the others followed his lead. After one recited a portion of the drinking song and another improvised its next part by varying, punning, riddling, or cleverly modifying the previous contribution. Before long, the capping verses evolved into numerous _skolia_ , and what which began with the extolment of the divine virtues or heroic men turned into the exchange of bawdy jokes.

'Please excuse this rowdiness, son of magnanimous Xanthias. At any other day, we Argives pride ourselves in _enkrateia_ or "self-mastery", which presumes an attitude of moderation and self-restraint in all matters. However, tonight's banquet is held in honour of Dionysus, the god of wine, merry-making and madness; as tradition necessitates us, drunkenness is a must on this day.' The king stroked his long beard.

Xanxus curtly nodded, raised his _kylix_ and proposed, 'To Dionysus.'

All who were present raised their kylikes and drank too. As the hours of the night immersed even deeper into darkness, the bacchanalian mood inspissated into pure orgy. The banqueters became bolder in groping the hetaeirai.

Squalo stared disdainfully across the room. Despite the number of cups he had drained, Xanxus still seemed sober, while Squalo himself was at the brink of inebriation.

Frustrated because he could not triumph over Xanxus in this field, Squalo sought for another option. He pulled a white-armed hetaeira onto his lap. Those who knew Squalo wondered if he was tipsy; they had lost count of the number of women—mostly the palatial maids—who had shared the general's bed, but he had never exhibited debauchery in public before. Even as he fondled her breasts and explored her womanhood with his fingers, his gaze never left the Prince of Lydia.

The Prince of Lydia himself, meanwhile opted to seduce one of the nude _oenochoi_ wine bearers. The oenochoe jug slipped from the inexperienced boy's hand and would have crashed against the floor had the prince himself not caught it. Some wine splattered from the jug's rim, dribbling on the young boy's fingers.

'You must not waste the drink.' The prince told his captive so silkily that Squalo could hardly believe Xanxus could emit such voice.

Carefully, the prince laid the oenochoe on the table, while his other hand brought the boy's hand onto his mouth, sucking each finger as though it had been a rare delicacy. The teenage boy's worry gradually dissipated into enthralment.

The servant boy moaned briefly, but then he bit his lip. Withal, it was conspicuous enough that his abdominal muscles tensed up while Xanxus was attending the five digits of his right hand one by one. The boy closed his eyes, and would have kept them so if it had not been for Xanxus' call, 'I want more drink.'

The boy relinquished the couch with the pang of disappointment clearly shown on his face. Nevertheless, the moment he handed the prince the cup, his prayer was answered. The Lydian commanded, 'Pass it to me through your mouth.'

The boy trembled, but did as he was told—albeit not quite successful. The prince's tongue claimed him so ferociously that the liquid inside his mouth was bound to spill, laving his uncovered skin. The prince's kiss travelled downwards, chasing the crimson wine. When the merciless tongue reached one of his pectoral nubs, the young boy quivered even more; his thirteen-year-old self had never experienced such curious pleasure that hardened his phallus before.

And yet, his erection was nothing compared to the monumental flesh he saw when the Prince of Lydia removed his lower article of clothing.

The raven-haired prince made the hazel-eyed youth sit on his lap, parting the young thighs a little to flank his manhood. _Pish, he shall make a good doll to King Imbrasus,_ thought Squalo. _He is not engaging himself in an anal copulation with a boy or a cuntal copulation with a woman in his future father-in-law's presence; surely he shall obey the old man forever and ever._

On the opposite side of the room, Squalo was pounding the hetaeira to stand in all four on the floor and penetrated her from behind like a dog in a leash, unashamed not to seek the shadows of privacy for his dalliance. He thrust and thrust like there would be no tomorrow—everything he had, he spent them all that very moment. The bitch whimpered, but Squalo's attention was directed to opposite side of the room rather than to her.

'Submit yourself to me!' he heard a hiss from the Lydian mouth as the latter kept thrusting back and forth in-between the oenochoos' inner thighs during their intercrural congress.

'Yes, my lord,' subserviently, obediently, willingly the servant boy answered, unaware that the demand was not actually intended for him at all. The inexperienced boy could barely hold for two minutes. His back arched as his milk-white semen drenched Xanxus' fingers.

Nobody minded what they did, given that everybody else was also busy with their own sport. Hither and thither, hands groping others' bodies, hips shaking in tandem, and lascivious moans filled the hall.

* * *

CHAPTER III

**Wrestling: the Arena and the Bed**

The sun's chariot was passing its highest course across zenith when the Crown Prince of Sardis approached the General of Eretria practising shadow boxing alone in the _palaestra_ the following day.

'What do you want, son of a noble?' Having just recovered from one of the worst hangovers in his life, the silver-haired man did not bother to conceal the sarcasm in his tone, and this was not unexpected to the raven-haired one.

'A rematch,' answered the foreigner simply.

That day was a festival day. In honour of Dionysus, most workers were relieved of their duties so that they might participate in the god's procession or watch it with their family or have an excuse to be legally drunk with their friends in broad daylight. Since the majority of the palatial officers were away, there was very little chance this rematch would be interrupted.

'You box and wrestle, do you not?' enquired the silver head after thinking of a way to humiliate the prince without taking the spoiled brat's life and risking his own neck—nobody, in all his life, had ever defeated him in a sword fight so far.

A predatory sneer now adorned the self-contented face Squalo hated so much.

'Then we shall do _kato pankration_. Victory in this competition depends on one competitor acknowledging defeat. Just raise your right hand with the index finger pointed when you are ready to admit defeat. Biting is not allowed, neither is gouging,' asserted the general as he removed his _exomis_ short tunic and threw it to the nearest stone bench. Under normal circumstances, he would have done this in the _apodyterion,_ but the undressing room was located near the main entrance and his patience did not extend that far; he wanted to crush Xanxus at the earliest opportunity. 'We Achaeans compete in the nude. Not only it's a symbol of showing that no weapon is concealed, but it is also considered an art of its own.'

When the Prince of Lydia removed his attire, the general of the Eretrian army quickly averted his eyes; he felt a strange urge to gulp at the sight of his adversary's pin bone. Xanxus' body was no less exquisite than that of the golden statues that bedecked King Imbrasus' hall—each line was seemingly supple and each muscle was sculpted to perfection. Yet Xanxus was no work of art; he was a living being. His trophies of victory—battle scars of various shapes and sizes—were etched across his skin.

'Also, before competing, each athlete needs to rub his body with oil and dust.' Squalo beckoned Xanxus to follow him through the north portico.

Like many other palaestrae, this one was centred around a rectangular courtyard, oriented precisely to the symmetrical cardinal points. Along all four sides of the palaestra are colonnades with adjoining rooms for bathing, ball playing, undressing, seating for socializing, observation or instruction, and equipment storages.

Squalo led Xanxus to the _elaeothesium_ , where olive oil was stored in bigger two-handled _amphorae_ jars as well as in smaller spherical _aryballoi_ flasks. Again, when the gleaming oil laved Xanxus' skin, Squalo was struck with a desire to touch the other male. But he dismissed the thoughts from his mind and bade his adversary to proceed to the _conisterium_ to dust themselves, so that their bodies became easier to grip.

They returned to the courtyard shortly afterwards. Both contestants entered the _ceroma_ —the sandy pit girded by a quoit for wrestling arena—where Squalo wiped the smile off of Xanxus' face through a hard kick to the pit of the stomach. His victory, however, proved to be more momentary than he had expected. Xanxus was too quick to recover from the pain and grabbed Squalo's leg to pull it toward his chest, lifting and turning to knock the younger man down.

As Squalo lay supine on the sand, Xanxus stepped between the general's legs with one leg and wrapped his opponent's legs at shin level around that leg. Holding the younger man's legs in place, the raven-haired man then grabbed Squalo's leg which he had crossed and stepped over, flipping the son of Polymedes over into a prone position before leaning back to compress the loudmouthed man's lower back.

But Squalo made a comeback by whipping one leg under the other to transition to stomach-up and slightly out to Xanxus side. Then the general reached with the near hand back to the prince's leg and pulled himself around behind the older man to gain control. Nevertheless, before he succeeded to reverse the opponent to the down position, Xanxus tackled him, and they both fell onto the sandy pit.

How long had it been since Squalo met such a challenging opponent? In wrestling, boxing and pankration, he was not as invincible as in swordfight, but very few men could fight on par with him. Judging from the laugh of excitement on the prince's side, he undoubtedly felt the same. The score of the match became the furthest thing from their minds; each only cared about conquering the other.

Grappling with each other in close hand-to-hand combat, Squalo must admit how difficult it was to tackle the Prince of Lydia: Xanxus never let him get perpendicular to pin his opponent. When he tried a surprise attack by reaching out his arms to lock up, the other wrestler pushed his outstretched elbow into the air and ducked under it and around the body to the first wrestler's back. He was not even allowed the chance to extend his leg to trip his opponent over it.

That day, witnessed by the limestone walls behind the stout columns that surrounded the courtyard, the general of the entire Eretrian army learnt perforce that there was more to the Prince of Sardis than a name.

Squalo was like a shark in the great sea. No fisherman in his right mind would dare to come his way. But this particular fisherman was insane. He would not relent despite the shark's sharp twists and turns, and when the ferocious creature bit, he bit back. Squalo was a fierce beast, but Xanxus was fiercer, and the two beasts contended on until the glowing sun immersed into the crimson horizon.

Xanxus' grapple brought Squalo down to his knees, one arm gripped behind his back, the other supporting his weight on the ground. His head was clutched by his adversary's formidable hand, and back secured by the older man's standing leg. The Lydian demanded, 'Yield!'

'Never!' His contender ferociously stated.

Hence, Xanxus bent. His knee pushed Squalo's popliteal space from behind, forcing the younger man's other knee to touch the ground. He still held the silver-haired son of Polymedes by the wrist, but now his diaphragm adhered to the general's back, and his face was so close to the other's nape.

The prince sat on the back of his contender, who was face down on the sand, and placed the silver head's arms on his thighs. The son of Xanthias then reached around his opponent's head and applied a chin-lock before leaning back to pull the son of Polymedes' head and torso.

A swift thought darted through the Prince of Lydia's mind, urging him to grab the General of Eretria by the hair and licked the general on the side of his neck.

The silver haired captive was caught unwitting—by both the grab and the lick. 'YOU—'

But Xanxus gagged Squalo's mouth, shoving two fingers of his free hand into it until they were well coated with the general's saliva. The more Squalo resisted, the harder Xanxus pulled his hair and the more intense Xanxus' body pressed against his own. There was no escape; they were sealing each other's exit with their own bodies. Dominance was something that the doughty general had never surrendered easily. Nevertheless, even his pride yielded to the combined force of the prince's and his own lust.

Xanxus bit the crook of Squalo's neck until it bled. The tongue inside Squalo's mouth rolled to pronounce 'Hey, you're the woman here!' but since his invader's fingers were still in there, his tongue only caressed Xanxus' flesh.

 _Damn,_ you _should be_ _the woman here!_

At last, the raven released his prisoner from the mouth gag, only to use his hand to stretch Squalo's rear opening and invaded the furled entrance.

Squalo's muscles contracted at the sudden intrusion. True, no soldiers of Hellas reached adulthood without ever experiencing being an _eromenos_ , but the last time he had become one, he was sixteen. Most men turned from bring _eromenoi_ into _erastae_ at the age of eighteen, but he had proven his worth and been acknowledged as an _erastes_ before his seventeenth summer. In addition, intercrural sex was more popular than anal.

The silver-haired son of Polymedes struggled again, but the foreigner held his both forearms behind his back and shoved himself into the crevice between the twin mounds of Squalo's buttocks.

The first thrust was tight—much too tight for comfort to sink in either of them. But with this handsome stranger, Squalo knew that 'reprieve' was something he would never get the chance of.

The second thrust was excruciating enough for virgins to shun sex for the rest of their lives. But Squalo was no virgin.

The third thrust was the most peculiar Squalo had ever experienced. The rough, the gentle, the good and the bad—he'd had them all. None of them managed to make him feel that the entire world, save for the two of them, disappeared … like this.

For a man who still held his pride high, moaning during sex might be humiliating. But Xanxus had made him forget everything, and for a man who had forgotten everything, moaning or not would not matter. Squalo's voice resounded loud and clear into high heaven.

Smirking in triumph at Squalo's expression, Xanxus nibbled Squalo's neck before carrying on to the fourth thrust, and the fifth, sixth, seventh … and so forth until thick white liquid relinquished them both and reality snapped back to silver-haired son of Polymedes, freeing him from the state of oblivion he had been in.

'You belong to me,' panted the older man, as he slumped onto his prey, letting their breath and sweat intermingle.

'Never! My body and my soul belong to Eretria. No one can change that, not even the king himself, should his heart deviate from its current course.'

Therewith, the general hurriedly let go of his embrace from the foreign prince's back. He could not forgive his own traitorous hands for clinging onto a barbarian so readily, and the moan after moan escaped from him during the copulation, on top of that. He gathered his clothes in attempt to scurry away as soon as possible. He did not want to see Xanxus for the rest of his life—although he knew this would be impossible. Even now, the prince's words taunted him again.

'Running away? You, the so-called strongest general of all the Peloponnese, are _that_ afraid of me?'

Squinting, Squalo challenged, 'Hmp, can you still satisfy me?'

'Can _you_ handle me?'

'Your room or mine?' snarled the son of Polymedes.

In less than five minutes, articles of clothing pooled near the bedpost of the general's private chamber. On the fifty-fifth thrust, despite what sounded like agonised screams, the recumbent Squalo bucked his hips to meet Xanxus' flesh above him in in-and-out rhythmic motions. On the ninety-seventh thrust, Xanxus hoisted Squalo's both thighs over his shoulders for wider access, deeper thrusts and even louder moans. On the one hundred and thirty-fourth thrust, Squalo tossed his head back, causing his long hair to whip through the air while riding Xanxus. Multiple rounds of coition straight after a wrestling match and skipping dinner exhausted them both; neither seemed to care when Hypnos enclosed them in his mighty wings.

The robe of Dawn had started tincting the dark grey welkin with its rosy colour when Squalo awakened. It was not difficult to distinguish another's breath in his room: Xanxus was sitting next to his reclining body, sipping some mellow wine.

Squalo's eyes automatically focussed on the fingers that held the _kantharos_ goblet. The fingers that triumphed over him in fighting. The fingers that held the mysterious power to conquer him even mentally, making him covet them so. The fingers that had caressed him through and through.

Unconsciously, his eyes followed those fingers as they laid the bronze cup onto the bedside table. And when those fingers were heading onto his body, he then realised that fingers were not the only things that approached him. He had been staring at Xanxus' hand for too long to realise that the prince's torso was now forming a canopy above him. The scarred man was eyeing him with great interest. His fingers were now tilting Squalo's chin and bringing it to meet his lips.

Streaks of wine, diluted with water and saliva of the two men dribbled along Squalo's jaw line: Xanxus was transferring his drink into Squalo's mouth. Squalo would have protested, 'That's the most disgusting drink I have ever tasted!' if only Xanxus' gleam had not possessed the ability to swallow those words even before they were pronounced.

The taller man's mouth kept ravishing his partner's as his body descended to lie atop him, skin upon skin and breaths overlapping each other's. Sensing the other man's bulge prodding his thigh _and_ his own hardening, Squalo pushed Xanxus away. 'The sky is dawning. I need to supervise the soldiers' morning exercise soon.'

But the foreign prince's fingers now grasped the local general's forearms overhead, his mouth descended on Squalo's body from neck downwards.

'Hey, I said—' But Squalo could not repeat what he said; not only did Xanxus' violent kisses aroused fresh waves of desires within him, but the older man's thrust was also overwhelming. 'Ahh… AAHHH!'

Meanwhile, in their shared room in the guest room suites area, vexed by the sound which disturbed his sleep, Leviathan muttered, 'The Eretrians surely are early birds; they have even risen from bed to strangle the chickens for today's feast.'

To which Lussuria on the neighbouring bed, who was also awaken by the noise, replied, 'I do not think that is the sound of a strangled fowl, dear Levi. It sounds more like the sound of sex … a very wild sex, to me.'

'You always associate everything with sex,' remarked Fran while rolling to the other side of his bed, 'What kind of sex would be this loud anyway, no matter how wild it is?'

Belphegor on yet another bed chose to cover his face with a pillow. His mumble was still audible, nevertheless. 'How dare they disturb a prince's beauty sleep!'

Xanxus' followers were not the only ones who heard the concurrent noise: more than half the occupiers of the residential quarters woke up for the same reason. When the loud voice did stop at last, the Sun's fulgent chariot was already high in the sky. That day, General Squalo was seen limping with numerous bite marks on his jugular area. Yet, none of his soldiers dared to breathe a word about this in his presence. No soldier of glorious Eretria would like to think that their mighty general was allotted with the receiving end during a sexual intercourse.

At night, Xanxus revisited his chamber. As much as Squalo intended to reject the older man's advance, when the prince's glorious dark hair swept across his abdomen in a long trail of pugnacious kisses, he no longer knew whether to say 'Dismount from me!' or 'Continue!'

There were no affectionate caresses, no words of love, no bond of some sort between them; only Xanxus' passion, of which heat dispersed the frosts of dawn, girded Squalo's body with its upsurges, and to them both, this was enough.

When morning came, just as sailors counted breezes, and merchants, coins, while shepherds, cattle, the silver-haired man counted the sinuous lines on his bedmate's scarred body. The avian feathers dangling from the Lydian prince's raven hair stirred as their owner breathed in and out in his sleep. The Eretrian general did not touch them, compelling himself to be content by merely watching. He knew that his relationship with Xanxus was bound to end the following week, when the prince set sail for his homeland. He also knew that Xanxus was _supposed to_ and indubitably _would_ court Princess Callithoe, to whom he was betrothed, later on that day. After one final glance at the sleeping figure, Squalo rose from his bed.

'Is that all? You're just staring at me and nothing else? Are all the races of Hellas who pride themselves in war too afraid to touch a sleeping unarmed man?' Xanxus' vexed voice took Squalo by surprise.

The nimble-footed general, however, did not turn back. 'I cannot be late for my soldiers' training every single day.'

The warlike prince spoke no further as his object of lust swept across the room, past the arched door and disappeared behind the white walls of the palace.

* * *

CHAPTER IV

**A Woodland Trip**

'Angle your shield higher; your stance is still full of openings!' instructed Squalo as he walked down the narrow aisle flanked by sparring soldiers.

Thousands of feet were trampling the verdant grass, heavy with strikes, blows and blocks. Amidst the cloud of dust, Squalo heard one pair of feet approaching his direction; their steps were faster and lighter than any of the soldiers in the field. The general swerved and perceived a palatial servant boy skittering towards him, his short tunic billowing in the wind and his leather sandals barely touched the ground.

'General Squalo sir,' the young boy addressed him, 'His Majesty has asked for your presence in the throne room.'

Thus, the son of Polymedes bade his lieutenant to lead the troop's practice and followed the boy back to the throne room.

Therein, the leader of people adjured, 'Squalo, I have a task for you. My six daughters and their handmaids will be gathering berries later today. Pick a handful of your most well-mannered men and escort these girls.'

The general bowed and did as he was told.

It was at the hour of midmorning that thirty maidens of ravishing beauty, well escorted by thirteen men of the highest martial arts skills, arrived at the foot of the Mount Soira. The woodland where these blissful maidens reaped the fruits that mother Earth yielded was the closest equivalent possible Eretria had to the Elysian Fields. Basking in the glorified morning sun rays, the dew on the grass glistened on the velutinous verdures. A number of butterflies flew past, adding beauty to the land with the resplendent colour of their lepidopterous wings. Upon discerning humans' presence, moles quickly dove into their holes, squirrels only dared to run round on the highest tree branches, while deer, which proved to be the commonest target in hunting, hid themselves completely from sight.

There was a small shrine, most ancient and richly grown with poplar groves, dedicated to Persephone deep in the wood. Rather than made of chiselled limestone, the sanctuary was fashioned by nature—a stony shelf with a rock cliff wall behind it, in which there was a shallow grotto-like sedimentation. Before this shrine was a small lake whereof water was so clear as to mirror the surrounding trees in undistorted reflection.

It was in this invigorating lake that the maidens took off their flowing robes and bathed, after hours of pleasant toil. Their maidenly jocularity had been filling the woods while they were picking the freshest berries their dainty hands could find. Now they splashed the water, shimmering with sunlight, to one another, tittering, as happy as dryads, while all cares were worlds away. The sound of their merry laughter as well as the sound of the spattering liquid filled the otherwise silent woodland, echoing even to the other side of the cliff, where Squalo and his subordinates stayed in watch with their backs facing the lake, ensuring no trespasser came their way and desecrated any of the royal virgins with either their concupiscent eyes or minacious hands.

The umbrageous arboreal shades of the woodland provided these men comfortable refuges from the relentless heat of the midday sun. The soldiers chattered amongst themselves, but their general silently watched the shadow of the flying birds.

_It is too quiet. What trouble lurks behind?_

Soon the shadows of the passing birds, of the swaying foliages and of the Eretrian soldiers were not the only ones which occupied the place. Dwarfish shadows of five men were advancing towards them. Notwithstanding, unlike these shadows, their owners of were tall and menacing, most especially the one with feathers attached to his raven hair.

'Why are you here, Prince of Sardis?' hissed the son of Polymedes as soon as their eyes met.

'I wish to see my wife-to-be,' answered the older.

Through the general's gritted teeth came the reply, 'Not while she is bare-fleshed amongst other maidens!'

'Nobody defies the will of the Prince of Luddu.' A ferine grin adorned Xanxus' mouth as he spoke.

'Nobody defies the honour of the Princesses of Eretria!' growled Squalo. He suspected, from the lustre in Xanxus' eyes, that an audience with the princess was a bait to provoke his anger into another fight. _That bastard, why can't he leave me alone?!_

The twelve Eretrian soldiers readied their spears, awaiting their commander's permission to launch the pre-emptive strike. Squalo himself drew his sword; this sort of enemy could not be taken out without the weapon he trusted most.

But, much to their surprise, Xanxus declared, 'Then you will keep me company until the princess finishes her bath and is presentable.'

The Eretrian men wondered if what the Lydian meant by 'keeping him company' was 'engaging themselves in a combat', but their assumption was betrayed. The prince simply took the empty space next to Squalo and settled himself under the same tree. His followers clustered under a different tree.

The Eretrian general did not let down his guard as he enquired, 'Could you not meet her in the palace?'

'I do as I please, scum,' snarled the spoiled prince.

Squalo offered no further reply. For a while, he let silence stretch out between them in what seemingly an unending amount of time. He condemn himself, his silly thoughts, for a part of him was secretly hoping that meeting the princess was the older man's excuse to meet him. He clenched his fists and diverted his attention to the prince's followers.

The golden-haired youth who had sung in the banquet was playing with his knives, occasionally stabbing the hooded child. Strangely enough, the child seemed to be immune to pain, even though he complained about the bully. The two older men ignored this as though it had been their daily routine.

Hence, Squalo remarked, 'How come a child becomes your personal guard?'

Xanxus cast him a piercing glare.

'What?' mocked the Eretrian, 'You are not going to claim that you merely babysit him, are you?'

'Fran has a potential, though he still needs training to control his power.'

'This "power" … does it involve invulnerability?'

'Ha, I see that you are not blind, scum.'

Squalo was unsure how much his own ears deceived him, but he thought Xanxus called 'scum' more fondly to him than before.

As a sweet fragrance arose in the air, there was a rustle amongst the greeneries. Princess Callithoe appeared, majestic and mien, like an Olympian goddess descending from the heights of heavens. Chiton gown of finest linen fluttering in the gentle breeze, she addressed the man her honourable father had appointed to be her husband, 'Winged words have reached my ears that you wish to see me, sublime Prince of Sardis.'

'Indeed.' Xanxus rose to greet her.

Feeling bars of lead dropping inside his stomach, the Eretrian general urged his feet to leave. He then accosted the banquet singer who was sitting underneath a tree with the rest of Xanxus' followers, 'Lad, we have not settled our little score the other day.'

The boy sneered and brought forth five knives, but Xanxus' tallest follower reminded him, 'Bel, it is not our lord's wish for you and that man to stand in feud.'

'Fear not, Levi. There are several ways to use a knife and this prince knows exactly how to do so without disrupting peace.' He turned to Squalo. 'Hey general, shall we have a contest of speed, accuracy, and, most importantly, courage? Place one hand on the grass; the other hand will have to do fifty rapid stabs to the ground between the fingers without injuring the skin.'

Squalo found no difficulty with that; in fact, his speed was impressive, for it was his childhood game. However, his mouth hung open when it was Belphegor's turn. The youth was a prodigy, born one out of a million. His speed made it impossible for eyes to follow, and given that no blood covered his fingers when he showed his hand afterwards, his accuracy was unquestionable too.

When Squalo was debating within himself whether to admit defeat, he heard the brat say, 'Victory cannot be determined this way. What about doing it simultaneously to each other?'

Suddenly the spring sun felt hotter than usual and beads of sweat trickled from Squalo's temple. He had never done such thing before; nevertheless, he would not back down.

Thus, Belphegor and Squalo's left hands were flat against the brown soil, while their right hands held a knife each and stabbed the earth. Belphegor did it with ease, but after just fifteen stabs, Squalo knew he had grazed his adversary's index finger. He saw no blood, but felt the friction during his action. He withdrew his knife and uttered, 'My loss.'

After sheathing the knife back to his belt, Squalo averred, 'You do have talent, lad.'

Belphegor's comrades were sure he would reply with something like 'Of course, I'm the genius prince, after all,' but instead, he said, 'So do you, general.'

This time, it was not a sneer, but a smile that adorned his face.

'Aww, isn't friendship a beautiful thing?' An unfamiliar voice made the hair on Squalo's nape stand up. It was, without doubt, a man's voice, but it was contorted to represent a woman's.

Squalo swerved. The speaker turned out to be Xanxus' other follower, and his manner of speech explained why his vestiary sense was so sissified—a silken deep purple himation with floral embroidery draped over a silk lavender chiton.

'It occurred to my mind,' the silver head addressed the blindfolded man, 'That you never carry a walking stick.'

'Of course not, dear.' He placed both hands on the cheeks in a manner of covering blush, though there was nothing to blush for. 'Aww, I'm not blind. This is just fashion; the cloth is thin enough for me to see through.'

Squalo decided he would never seek any habiliment advice from this man.

'By the way, I am Lussuria, son of Oeager of Lesbos. The one who has just competed with you is Belphegor, son of Euphorbus of Icaria. On my right is Leviathan, son of Abas of Astypalaea. On my left is Fran of Chios. We know nothing of his parentage. While hunting, we found him alone in the wilderness.'

'Still, you wouldn't have brought him along hitherto if he had not proven to be useful, would you?'

'You have keen eyes, general. When we found him two years ago, he was roasting a bear.'

But before Squalo had the chance to question how they could be sure that the child was the one who killed the bear, Xanxus' angry roar terminated their discourse.

'If you are about to prevaricate, princess, you might as well say no.'

Princess Callithoe grew pale in the face; however, with her small voice, she braced herself saying, 'I am an Eretrian, but you are a man of foreign blood. You come, I leave; you leave, I come—this is how I have been made, Prince Xanxus. What you wish, I do not; what you do not, I wish.'

Squalo scrambled to his feet, quickly assuming his position between the two royalties. Drawing his sword, he stated, 'A threat to her is a threat to Eretria.'

The Lydian prince glared at the Eretrian princess, then extended his arm. For a moment, everyone who was present suspected that he would produce a weapon and strike the terrified princess. When he opened his fist, however, it was a necklace that dropped to the ground. With no further attempt to explain himself, the dark-haired foreigner turned away and left, his followers going with him.

'What have I done?' the princess broke into tears and her knees gave her away to the none-too-soft cradle of the wild grass. Five handmaids rushed to her solace. 'I shouldn't turn down the gift from my betrothed—I know I shouldn't. On the other hand, I have come to despise small, winged animals since I was little, especially when I think of how their hairy legs could crawl over my skin. Even now, just to look at one makes me sick. And to think that the Prince of Lydia had obtained that necklace from a faraway land called Egypt…'

 _Girls!_ Squalo swore mentally. Was now really the time to prioritise fear for insects over politics? Why hadn't she thought that her immature behaviour could easily flare a war?

The Eretrian general stared at the rejected necklace. Its chains of pure gold and pendant of a blue lapis lazuli scarab beetle coruscated in the afternoon sun.

* * *

CHAPTER V

**The Mourning**

That night, Xanxus came to Squalo's bed again.

'I am not some pathetic replacement when your wife-to-be says "no",' snapped Squalo as he pushed Xanxus' chin away from his neck. 'I bet you were planning to bed Princess Callipylia when you presented her that necklace.'

'That was a betrothal gift. No more. No less. Her consent matters not to me,' asseverated Xanxus, 'I want you.'

'I trust you not, man of foreign blood—you and the cozenage of your tongue!'

Xanxus eyed Squalo intently, and Squalo had his sword ready, lest the prince might begin to assault him. Nonetheless, he merely emitted one word: 'Scum.'

Squalo shivered. It was the same old 'scum.' The only difference lay in two things: the accent—now compact with pure aristocratic orotundity—and the tone—too soft for Xanxus' usual standard, so soft that the son of Polymedes could almost detect _affection_ within it.

'Why did you hide your true accent?'

The moment the question leapt from his mouth, Eretrian general regretted his query; out of inveterate propensity, the older man would give him an irksome reply like, 'I do as I please.' Fortunately, he was wrong.

Xanxus did answer him, 'During one's travel, it would take less hassle to be treated as a commoner than a royalty.'

Squalo knew well what his adversary meant. When King Imbrasus travelled with his convoy, the folks abandoned their labours to make way for them. Children were about to jeer at the royalty's attire which were nothing like theirs, but were quickly hushed by their parents in fear of angering the king. One or two encounters like that might give one a sense of pride, but spending the entire day, or longer, in such manner was a torture.

In the case of Princess Callianassa, King Imbrasus' third daughter, the vendors tried to sell her their goods at higher price, had it not been for one of her attendants had been experienced with such treatment. Squalo, who had escorted the princess at that time, had thought it foolish of the princess to go to the marketplace bedecked in such heavy jewelleries. But then again, she was still a child; perhaps, her handmaids were the ones to blame.

Even so, the silver head could not see why the Lydian needed to hide his royal accent in King Imbrasus' palace.

'I do not sing,' was the only answer the erastes gave when he tossed the question.

With that, Xanxus placed his hands on Squalo's hips, and this time the younger man did not push him away.

###

When the chariot of the tireless lordly sun-god Helios Hyperionides upsprung into high heaven, auriferous and radiant against the backdrop of the ruby-tinted dawning skies, a man around Squalo's age paid him a visit. The general recognised him as Macareus, son of Euryphemus. These father and son were his neighbours and his surrogate father's fellow fishermen. The general kept his greeting terse; he was moody thanks to Xanxus' excessive demand in bed and now that the pleasure was over, only pain lingered within his body.

His speaking adversary, however, paid no heed to this laconism, for he bore far graver news. 'My deepest condolences, deft-handed Squalo; Polymedes has headed to Acheron's sorrowful waves. My father and I found his lifeless form washed ashore nearly an hour ago, his fishing rod clenched firmly in his hand, with no boat sheltering his body. Probably, old age failed his strength whilst competing with some big fish he was catching and the fish pulled him into the sea.'

After that, the silver-haired son of Polymedes was nowhere to be found. He did entrust a large sum of gold to Macareus for his surrogate father's funeral rite, but couldn't bear to be there himself. Nobody saw him in the army either. No word. No letter. Simply … absent.

The next day was Xanxus' turn to go missing in exactly the same fashion. His followers searched for him high and low around the palatial precinct to no avail. On the other hand, one of the many caverns on the windy Eretrian rock-faced cliff was granted with two temporary residents.

Squalo's mournful ululation gave away his location and Xanxus found the general weeping on the mouth of the cave, facing the undulating waves of the sea. This was the very sea where the old man Polymedes had found baby Squalo, adrift inside a basket. This was the very sea where the old man Polymedes had taught his foster son to throw fish nets. This was the very sea where the old man Polymedes had called his child home when the latter played with his friends until late in the evening. The foamy surface of the sea right now differed nothing at all from that of the other years.

Dallied by the relentless Boreas, the silver locks of the youth flowed sideways from his mournful head. The general did not bother to hide his tears at the prince's presence, but did not hold back his yell either, 'Leave me alone!'

'I have come here for a nap but found Achilles instead,' replied the raven sardonically, abandoning his bucolic accent subterfuge, so that each word he articulated sounded majestic enough to be revered as the law itself.

Nevertheless, Squalo was in no mood to be impressed. Picking a nearby pebble, he threw it at Xanxus' face. 'What do you know about _my_ father?! Is it too incomprehensible for a barbarian like you that a son grieves over such pious father's death?'

For one flicker of moment, Xanxus seemed to be about to deride him. Notwithstanding, he settled with, 'I know nothing about your father. But this much I know: I do as I please, Achaean scum!' Dodging the pebble, the prince knelt, grabbed the sulking man's long hair and planted a rough kiss on the latter's lips.

'Go away!' struggled the sitting man, pushing his capturer with all his might.

'You think you _can_ make me go away?' mocked the stronger of them, clasping his arms around the younger man's back in a deadly grip.

Squalo still struggled, but Xanxus' powerful grasp gave him no room to succeed. Twelve whole minutes was all it took for Squalo's resistance to evolve from 'Let me go, dammit!' to 'I'm not in the mood for this!' and 'Curse you, arrghhh!'

When it came to this man, resistance was futile.

Only after Squalo showed no more sign of struggle did Xanxus release his captive. Detaching a pouch from his belt, he took out a loaf of bread, a generous slice of cheese and a large chuck of meat. 'Eat!'

Squalo only stared at him with furrowed eyebrows.

'How can I boast of defeating the strongest general of the Peloponnese when he is starving?!' He reasoned, impatience laced in his tone.

For one ephemeral moment, the silver-haired man nearly blurted, 'You've come all the way down here just to bring me food?' But then, he changed his mind. The immortal gods had deprived him of a father, but bestowed him with a new solace. Xanxus used his aristocratic accent to him, and possibly to his followers too, but certainly not to other Eretrians; it made Squalo think—or dare to hope—that Xanxus _might_ regard him within the close range of his personal friends.

Silently, Squalo took the food from Xanxus' hands and began to masticate.

 _Even Achilles needs Patroclus._ At this notion, Squalo remembered his sore rear. _But this man is_ no _Patroclus._

However, even after the General of Eretria had had his fill of food and drink, the Prince of Sardis did not bring up the subject of rematch. Instead, he ordained, 'Tell me about your father.'

'Why do you want to know? He is gone. I have no need of your pity. Look, if you want a rematch, do it quickly and then begone!' bickered the son of Polymedes.

The son of Xanthias darted toward him, pushing him onto the karst wall of the cave.

'If the old saying "Like father like son" is true, then your father must have been downright annoying, weak, arrogant, loud-mouthed man…'

Squalo held his fist high, ready to strike, but his movements came to a halt as soon as he heard Xanxus' next words, '… whose loyalty knew no bounds.'

This alluring stranger was infuriatingly right, and there was nothing Squalo's racing heart could do against it.

'H-he was not my real father … but he treated me like a son, and I know he was kinder to me better than most fathers were to their sons. He had neither wife nor slave, so he did all the housework in addition to raise me alone.'

On and on Squalo's story went. He did not know on what account he trusted this stranger to hear the tale of his personal life. All he knew was that when he avowed, 'So I tried my hardest to keep my father proud by joining the army and conquer all Hellas,' Xanxus was eyeing him with a great interest, and a slight tinge of blush painted his cheeks because of that.

'A-at any rate,' Squalo tore himself from Xanxus' eyes, 'I was not cut out to be a fisherman…' Squalo's sentence drifted midway as Xanxus now relinquished his seat and approached him. Squalo was standing near the cave wall, and Xanxus stretched his arms to entrap him between them.

His heart racing, the Eretrian general tried his best not to gulp. There were no thousands of armed enemies, advancing threateningly with shields and spears in their hands, rousing clouds of dust in the battlefield. No, there was only one man before him, and unarmed at that! And yet, the presence of this one man stirred the fear, anticipation and allurement of a thousand hoplites within Squalo just because their faces were inches away from each other.

To no avail had the silver-haired son of Polymedes reminded himself, repeatedly, that he ought to mourn for his father, but all his desire of resistance evaporated into thin particles of ether as soon as his eyes were fixed on the deep pool of mystery and enthrallment that was Xanxus' countenance.

Nevertheless, the older man did not kiss him. Instead, he went down on his knees. Then, without removing Squalo's _karbatinos_ shoe, he hoisted the general's leg and brushed his mouth along the skin of the younger man's shin, knee and thigh—none too softly, yet none too roughly.

Squalo tried to retreat, but one step behind him was the cave wall. His back was flat against the rocky wall now and there was no room to arch despite Xanxus' relentless onslaughts. The prince slipped his head underneath the general's short exomis tunic without yanking it out of the way, licking, sucking, nibbling the aroused flesh. Soon the notion that the prince of Sardis was tending his manhood became too overwhelming: his own flesh betrayed him.

'This isn't like you,' Squalo hissed through clenched jaw, trying his best not to let his midsection spurt his essence. _Not yet. Not just yet._

'You think you know all of me after just one night's experience?' mocked the erastes.

_Damn! Must you ask such a question right after your tongue teased my fraenulum?_

The trembling breathing of the eromenos' plane of abdomen stimulated a smug grin on the raven-haired man's face.

'You bastard!' The leather-shod younger man groaned; his back arched as he did so.

The older one paused. For one frightening moment, Squalo was worried lest Xanxus would stop approaching him forever, but instead, he remarked, 'Heh, you're damn right at that! No matter how many women my father had, none of them could bear him a child, except for my mother. Later, he discovered that I was no son of his, but he covered it up, not wanting the whole nation to consider him a laughing stock who was unable to procreate. Thus, he raised my mother's status from a mere concubine to a queen, and then secretly gave ordained the royal apothecary to envenom her. He was in bed with other women during her funeral rite.' That became Xanxus' last sentence. His mouth was soon too busy to converse, back to its original mission of seduction.

Too immersed in the ocean of bliss, Squalo did not ask Xanxus to carry on the discourse. They could talk some other time; right now, he needed that tongue for another function. He could not see Xanxus' face because of his tunic. Yet, he made no attempt to remove the garment. It was better this way: at the very least, Xanxus would not see his embarrassingly sultry expression. But, as though he had been able to read the eromenos' mind, the raven's head abruptly emerged from between those thighs. Rising to his feet, Xanxus claimed Squalo's lips with no further ado.

They did not know how long the fierce kiss, or _kisses_ , lasted. While their tongues were too engaged in wrestling, their hands were busy stripping each other of clothing articles.

When both were naked, save for their shoes, Squalo placed one leg around Xanxus' waist, wrapping it in tacit demand of what had become his prerogative as of late. The warlike prince fain obliged, making his entrance with a powerful thrust.

No words were exchanged between the two conjoined bodies. Motions became their way of communication, trading breath for breath and sweat for sweat. Whether one of them was standing, sitting or reclining, the other would be sure to pursue.

Squalo strove to hold, to grab, to _touch_ any part of praecipe, but it was no use; the pit of love was not only deep, but also engulfed his soul with its mysterious power.

The incandescent cloak of the rich-tressed Selene spread against the lofty heaven, and in her soft caresses of luminescence, Squalo could see how a part of Xanxus came in and out of him in rhythmic motion, how the older man took him incessantly from behind, how the royal blood lifted him whole by both limbs and impaled his body with eager flesh. Loud-resounding moans echoed through the cave walls all night long, no less conspicuous than the voices of a raging tempest. Sleep, along with his soporific mist, was unwelcomed here.

Only after noon of spring's glow descended around them did Xanxus let go of his embrace around Squalo, crotch coated in white, with one last deep red teeth-shaped imprint near his collarbone.

They were walking to the mouth of the cave when Xanxus' followers—all four of them—rushed in. Unprecedented by any courteous talk, Belphegor warned them, 'The old coot announced our arrest with a charge of his youngest daughter's assassination.'

'WHAT?! You mean Princess Callipolyxo is dead?' Squalo questioned him in disbelief, shaking the youth by the shoulders.

'How…' Squalo became silent; now was not the time to contemplate. He took a deep breath, turned to Xanxus and said, 'You have to flee as soon as possible. I'll try to reason with the king not to capture you or at least buy you some time to escape.'

Instead, the son of Xanthias held him by the waist. 'Come with me.'

Xanxus' gaze was so intense that a lump formed in Squalo's throat. The silver-haired man had to clench his jaw first before shaking his head. 'I…' he compelled his limbs to make the first step, '… have my own dream to follow. Farewell, son of Xanthias.'

###

Outside the cave, the deep blue of the near cloudless afternoon sky met the deeper colour of the sea in a sharp dividing horizon line, making the sea look as dead and quiet as a mirror. When wind forsook the sea like this, Xanxus would not be able to sail swiftly. Squalo hastened his steps, intending to delay King Imbrasus from pursuing Xanxus at all cost.

When the son of Polymedes reached the high walls of the palace, the royal quarter was filled with turmoil. The ladies-in-waiting were running haphazardly, carrying freshly-picked flowers, fluffy rabbits, flowing dresses and several other objects which were usually pleasing to the queen's eyes. The guards, on the other hand, were rushing, trying to find Xanxus and his companions.

'What happened?' the general asked one of the sentries.

'Terrible news, son of Polymedes of the mighty arms. While trying to rouse her mistress from bed this morning, Princess Callipolyxo's nanny found the little girl's lifeless body instead. She was strangled to death with a necklace and the investigators declared that the assassination took place just before midnight. Now Queen Laonome will not come out of her bedchamber, and I can even hear her tormented wails from here. King Imbrasus has decreed the arrest of Prince Xanxus.'

'What makes him think that Xanxus is the murderer?'

'Sir, on Princess Callipolyxo's throat was a necklace with a beetle pendant, and according to the maidservants who went to the woods the day before yesterday, such necklace was supposed to be a gift from the barbarian to Princess Callithoe.'

Squalo hastened towards the throne room with the intention of telling the king that Xanxus was innocent. Behind him, a throng of guards brought Xanxus' four followers in restraints.

 _How come they are here?_ wondered Squalo.

As always, Squalo's actions were faster than his words. Before he had the time to think of what was wise, his sword had slashed the shackles apart. 'Go! Tell Xanxus to run away!'

As the four foreigners fled, Squalo stayed behind to prevent the palatial guards from pursuing the escapees. The guards were thrown into confusion; after all, Squalo had been, a good commander to them.

On the other hand, Aristomedon, Squalo's second-in-command, shouted, 'TREACHERY! ARREST HIM!'

The guards hesitated. None of them made a real move until the king himself came out of the throne room and demanded the truth. 'Is it true that my general has committed treason?'

Nobody dared to answer, so the middle-aged man had to rely on his own eyes. When the bitter truth sank in, he groaned, 'Squalo, what have you done?'

Aristomedon made a hand signal and the guards mobilised to fetter Squalo at last. He offered no resistance as they carried him to the dungeon.

###

Now in the dungeon, Squalo crestfallenly stared at his severed arm again. King Imbrasus' offer re-echoed inside his head, but must he ascend to Eretrian throne by-and-by with one arm only?

* * *

CHAPTER VI

**The War on the Plain**

For several hours, the queen of Eretria had been weeping over the loss of her youngest daughter, tearing her hair and beating her breasts in continuous wails. On account of her, there was no slumber for any occupant of the palace. So woeful was the sight that the gold-throned king started to doubt that his wife's sanity would last; in her dishevelled state, she was hardly indistinguishable from one of the Ciconian women when they were dissevering Orpheus. All the ladies-in-waiting endeavoured to comfort their mistress in turn, but the disconsolate royal lady found no solace in the counsel of words, for no stone of earth could outweigh the dismay in her heart.

Having wailed to her heart's content, Queen Laonome, daughter of big-hearted Laopylus, sought out justice. At the first ray of dawn, trailing _peplos_ made its way down to the depth of the palatial dungeon.

The honourable wife of Imbrasus cast manner aside and scampered before the prisoner. Voice hoarse from copious ululation, the golden-girdled queen of the land entreated, 'Son of benevolent Polymedes, will you not kill the vile murderer of a helpless maiden and appease a mother's aching heart? My darling daughter would have completed her eighth spring, if she had not lived a mere eight days too few.'

'My lady queen, Thanatos reft fair Callipolyxo from you as a child of eight years old, and whoever his agent was, I assure you, it was not Prince Xanxus.' Squalo quickly added, 'And not the prince's followers either, for they only harkened to Xanxus' voice, doing none of anyone else's bidding.'

'How can you trust those barbarians so?' The white-armed queen's eyes were overflowing with tears which glistened very much like the spangled tiara that bedighted her royal head and fell on the floor near the general's feet.

The son of Polymedes turned his gaze away.

'At least, do not close your heart to what the mother of your future wife has to say. Wives are not men's whole life, but they make men's lives whole,' again the queen implored him.

_That again? Even the queen urges me to wed Princess Callipylia?_

'Milady,' Squalo's lips trembled as he spoke, 'I deem Prince Xanxus innocent because he was not inside the palace precinct when the assassination took place or even several hours before that.'

The queen stared at the prisoner, her eyes tacitly demanding how he knew about this.

'He was with me all those times,' averred Squalo, preparing himself for the consequences.

What he had feared came true: with one last aghast look, the queen scampered outside, both hands clasping her mouth.

###

The prisoner woke up from his second sleep when a _hydria_ of cold water, as foetid as the palace sewage dump, hit his face in a violent splash. Before him stood King Imbrasus himself, face crimson with fury.

Standing next to the king was a guard who carried the now empty hydria. The guard was five years below Squalo's age. He had just joined the ranks of guards a fortnight before, induced by admiration for Squalo's bravery in defeating a boar barehanded. For the nonce, the shame of duty enforced him to avert his guilty face from his hero.

Since the barred window above him admitted plenty of sunlight, the silver-haired son of Polymedes guessed this must be approaching midday.

'Leave us!' the king ordered the guard.

The young soldier retreated with a bow. As soon as the door swung close, the grizzled man roared, 'You—the general of my entire army—became that bastard's whore?! You have disgraced my kingdom!'

Squalo did not answer. It was not that he had not thought about this, it was just that … the temptation had been too strong.

'I was prepared to give up one daughter—my flesh and blood—but I will not hear the leader of my army stick up his arse and beg to be penetrated by some barbarian!'

If only they had been under different condition, Squalo would have been stunned by the king's use of vulgar words. Notwithstanding, being as they were now, the silver head asked, 'Should you not value a daughter more than just a political tool?'

'HOW DARE YOU CRITICISE ME!'

But immediately after this enraged outburst, the king massaged the bridge of his nose and uttered in a restrained apoplexy, 'How much did he pay your bodily service?'

Blazing with incredulity, Squalo's eyes met his employer's in a long stare. Even though the king insinuated him a whore, surely he did not mean _that_ kind of whore?

'You are still green. You haven't realised how grave it is to have the weight of the entire kingdom rest upon your very shoulders and you've just put that kingdom into shame.'

Disappointment coated the king's voice, but another disappointment also seized Squalo's heart: the lord he truly respected, the ruler of people who long had held his sway, did regard that his body was for sale and his pride was tradable with gold.

He could not care less what words fell from the king's lips for the next minutes. The words just flowed around, and possibly through, his ears, but never reached his brain. He did not listen to any outer voice until his employer went out from the torture chamber, slamming the door for his lack of attention.

He heard a female voice just outside, pleading, 'Our daughter deserves a better man—someone who cares about her. Your general's heart is as unsteady as a piece of driftwood in the sea.'

'Silence, woman! What do you know about the prosperity of this kingdom?! Will the love for Callipylia alone conquer other nations, feed hungry stomachs and build temples for the gods?'

The last thing Squalo heard was the Queen of Eretria resigning to made obeisance to her lord husband, 'Howsoever a royal blood does sacrifice, the ancient custom is best.'

Then everything fell silent.

At first, Squalo assumed he could not hear the king and queen's discourse because their feet had carried them farther than his ear allowed him to hear, but then he realised there were no sound of footsteps either. There was no jingling sound of the metal keys made by the patrolling guard, not even the growl of Sklerophagus.

There were occasions when Time seemingly flew, but for the nonce he dragged his feet instead.

At last, at long last, the pitter-patter sound of footsteps in the corridor came back. No, not quite. Rather than the usual, leisurely gait of a patrolling guard on duty, this sounded closer to the hasty treads of a thief. And when the door of the torture chamber re-opened, no Eretrian stood behind it, but a Lydian did.

Their eyes met, and Squalo found the answer he had been seeking for embodied within one man: Xanxus was his myth and reality, his light and darkness, his joy and grief, his treasure and plague, his aspiration and disaster, his hope and despair, his truth and lie, his feast and starvation, his ataraxia and phobia, his friend and foe…

His everything.

And he did not know how to preclude the turbulence inside his stomach from dancing.

The Eretrian general's mouth moved to form 'Why did you come back?' but no word came out. His whole body became convulsed with bliss—so immense that it overwhelmed his power of speech. He just stared as the Lydian prince unshackled him from the wall and would have continued staring had Fran not arrived on the scene.

'I can only hold them for three more minutes,' the little boy hastened Xanxus.

Squalo did not understand what the frog-attired boy meant until he dashed outside at Xanxus' heel.

Hypnos visited every Eretrian within sight—royalties and sentries alike—accompanied by a soft and purple mist like vaporous amethyst. Dismissing his curiosity of why he wasn't affected by the mist, Squalo cast one last glance at the king's sleeping body as he passed through the corridor. If, by some contrivance of the Fates, they ever met again, they would have to cross their swords against each other.

Everywhere Xanxus, Squalo and Fran stepped, the grand palace had become a container of scattered bodies. Floral bathwater for the princesses spilled out from the _loutrophoroi_ as the maids who carried these pitchers were overcome with sleep. A long sweep of vibrant paint dabbed the west wall of the entryway at the wrong spot since sleep fell upon the artisan's eyes before he finished painting meander motif.

Outside, Levi, Belphegor and Lussuria had readied horses for the six of them. Together, they galloped apace to the horizon.

Before long, they reached the valley overlooking a meadow. The views from here were ever-changing throughout the seasons: rejuvenating colours of spring on the glens; long summer's evenings with glowing sunsets to the west; autumnal morning mists shrouding a nearby lake; and the hilltops dusted with snow. Yet now the dancing blades of grass told him it was time to bid farewell. Once the king learnt about his prisoner's escape, the file of soldiers would pour themselves out, onto the lush pasture that used to be his childhood playground, in their pursuit.

They journeyed further north. The afternoon sun was glowing in the sky and the treed beauty of the land was bathed in golden rays when they arrived at after passing a narrow ravine and a glen. Before them now stretched a deep-eddying river and it took much persuasion to get their horses cross the water. His fellow Eretrians immersed in the tide of the rain-swollen river while attempting the same method—that would be their greatest fear and his greatest hope—so that he would not have to bathe his sword in their blood. However, personal experience taught him that Eretrian coursers possessed no such weak nature. It was not long before what Squalo had been anxious for came to life.

Back in the palace, the war trumpet had resounded. The king had his fastest chariot readied and hoarded his battalion of army. Then the leader of people uttered forth, 'Let them know that those who have put disgrace upon Eretria shall not go unpunished!'

Aristomedon shouted, 'For beloved Eretria's sake, I shall fear neither the sombreness in the hall of Dis nor the triple sharp jaws of the Tartarean hound. To the fore!'

Led by their lord-of-war's pseudo-intrepidity, the soldiers raised a battle cry; little did they know that the man who claimed this had been _entreating_ to be spared from the boiling water. On the army advanced with Aristomedon as their commander.

 _How onerous could it be: defeating six men with the entire phalanx?_ The newly appointed general of Eretrian army cheered in heart at this very notion. Imbrasus had offered this vaunt son of Neocles a royal pardon and the hand of Princess Callipylia should he prevail in obliterating Xanxus and his followers—by 'followers', the king meant Squalo as well.

Predicting that the fugitives would eventually have to travel by sea, the pursuers took a shorter route through the city, in which the civilians who glimpsed the rapid procession of the billowing chlamys cloaks and the glinting bronze _kataphraktes_ suit of armour shut their doors tight.

When the royal army of one hundred and fifty _hippeis_ cavalrymen, followed by four hundred of the _hoplites_ infantrymen, reached a plain that separated two rivers, they confronted their targets. Six men stood firm on the other side of the plain. No craftsmanship of metal clad their bodies; valour served as their only armour.

The Eretrian archers proceeded to the front of the battle-line. Shower of arrows they shot; none of which touched Xanxus' armourless band, for the arrows were enflamed and wilted each time the Lydian prince's stare lay upon them.

'Fie! Those despicable barbarians employ sorcery!' exclaimed Imbrasus.

Having disburdened the horses from the weight of their bodies, Xanxus bade Lussuria and Fran to tie the horses onto the trees in the far background, outside the range of arrows, while Belphegor initiated the counterattack with his acute knives.

The youth was faster by far than was ever seen by the sons of Achaeans. Despite the vast range of the no-man's land—the space separating two opposing sides—all ten knives flew in a rapid course and embedded their blades of iron into the soldiers' necks. All except one. The royal charioteer was the first to fall; a new hole made its appearance on his _xystis_ accompanied by splotches of blood. So quick did death slip away from him that he had no need to clutch his left breast in pain, through which Belphegor's knife pierced his heart.

This left the king with a trouble with taking the rein while he ought to fend for his aged self. And yet, King Imbrasus would not yield. He harnessed his horses and at the grizzled man's chiding, the imperial coursers quickly whirled the swift gold-gilded chariot along, narrowing the gap between both oppositions.

Above them, a hawk flew across the sky from right to left. Not long after, they spotted two eagles in the sky, also soaring leftwards. Even the wind howled obstreperously, as though it was trying to dissuade them from taking further action. More than half the soldiers were stricken with terror.

'Nonsense!' affirmed the king when one of the hippeis warned him that, by Fates' ordinance, these portentous signs presaged defeat. 'Themis' Scale of Justice favours the righteous and we are on the right side; go forth to victory, men!'

'But sire, what if…' the cavalryman gulped, '… what if we are not the right side?'

Imbrasus' eyes narrowed dangerously. 'That Lydian bastard killed my daughter and my own general has chosen to side with him, yet you do not think we have every right to vindicate justice?'

'No Lydian killed Princes Callipolyxo, my lord.' The soldier's face blanched. 'It is I who did so.'

'What are you saying, Tharybis?' The king did not want to believe his ears.

'I … I … my utmost apologies…' Tharybis' hand gripped his steed's rein very tightly, yet even such tight grip did not free his hand from the trembling state it was in. Even tears welled up from his green eyes. 'I was in love with your fourth daughter. Of course, the twelve-year-old Princess Calliphronime knew nothing about this; I was planning to wait for another two years. But then I saw Prince Xanxus' gift thrown away by Princess Callithoe on the ground, and so I took it. I tried to sneak to Princess Calliphronime's bedchamber that night, to give the necklace to her and confess my undying love. Believe me, my lord, I intended to convey my feelings through words only.

But Princess Callipolyxo came out of her sister's door the moment I almost entered it. I panicked at once and in attempt to keep her from telling anyone of my presence, I used the necklace at hand to choke her. I dragged her lifeless form to her own bed afterwards. I have been afraid to admit the grave sin I committed, but I do not want the Eretrian army to suffer defeat because they defy the gods' behest.' He swallowed hard; the ominous flight of the birds still fresh in his memory.

King Imbrasus' countenance was now discoloured with lividity. Nonetheless, his voice was far quieter than Tharybis had thought it would be. 'How many people know about this?'

'Not a single soul, my lord.' The young man answered truthfully, voice encumbered with remorse. There was no time for his mind to calculate that there should be calm before a storm. Nor did he see a bronze spear coming before it pieced through his neck and his blood bathed the arm of its wielder.

'M-my lord … why…?'

Life seeping out from Tharybis' veins, his voice became so small the cavalryman barely recognised himself. This wasn't like him. Not like him at all.

His lord answered him in disgust, ' _Why?_ You dare ask why after all you've done?! You think I will give my daughter to a mere lieutenant?'

When soul no longer resided within the young man's body, and the body fell from the steed it had been mounting, the king spoke again, 'Besides, with your existence after that foolish confession, what reason can I extradite for the execution of those barbarians?'

Gone had the pretence to weave an alliance between Eretria and Lydia; the king had hired an assassin to kill the wretched Princess Callipylia after she arrived at Sardis and hence justified his reason to attack Lydia. He would not let himself the opportunity slip by through the loss of a different daughter. Imbrasus cast his glance to his other soldiers and with furiousness blazing in his eyes and colouring his voice, announced, 'Prevent me from punishing those filthy barbarians again, and you'll all suffer the same fate as Tharybis'. NOW ATTACK!'

At the king's words, the six opponents they had to face seemed like mere children to the Eretrian soldiers eyes. Hundreds of feet and hooves went on stampede, abusing the face of Earth and the grass that inhabited it. Hundreds of swords and spears were brandished, their metal blade glinting menacingly. Hundreds of battle cries and neighs reverberated in a single field, replacing serenity with cacophony;Cydoemus had breathed his evil counsel and the Androktasiai would soon be delighted to reap the souls of the fallen.

Yet, all came into a halt at the strike of lightning.

The Eretrians looked above in wonder and fear. No longer was the sky as warm and sunny as when they had arrived. Dark clouds became its hood whereas winds became its veil. A storm loomed over them. Did they truly anger the gods?

Beads of cold sweat glistened on Imbrasus' temple. His coursers neighed violently, though fine horses they had always been. His soldiers crouched and cowered in reverence and fear.

One sweeping glance from Xanxus and the horses performed a perfect piaffe.

While many eyes stared in awe, no fewer were drenched with fear, and King Imbrasus' were among these that even his voice was coloured with disquiet. 'Xanthias the subduer will not be enthusiastic to hear his only son waging another war. Submit yourself now, and then no harm shall we, honourable Achaeans, bring upon your country!'

'You Achaeans consider there are only two kinds of people: Achaeans, and everyone else who wish they had been Achaeans.' No more country bumpkin accent came out of the regal prince's mouth. Instead, each syllable emanated an air that admitted of no gainsay that the Eretrians began to doubt lest their own ears might have deceived them.

'You think your people are superior in noble deeds to the rest of the world and yet your so-called heroes themselves did perform the most ignoble deeds. Recall the hubris of Bellerophon, reaching for Olympus uninvited? Or how Jason resorted to tricks and oath-breaking to achieve his goals? Or how Oedipus ended his father's life on foray and then begot four children from his own mother? Or how Agamemnon decided to sacrifice his own daughter in order to wage a decade-long war to retrieve his wanton sister-in-law?'

'Let that be the end of your speech, o foreign prince of a land beyond the sea!' lividly King Imbrasus made his reply. Next, he signalled his soldiers to charge again.

But Leviathan stood firm with eyes flashing as though with flame and he towered above the rest in height. What mortal foemen underneath heaven's vast canopy would have dared to meet him face to face? For great was his strength and unconquerable were his arms. Eight rods he hurled onto the field and from the eight erect metals came forth thunder, sending all the eighty-seven men who stood within their electrical perimeter straight down to Hades.

The king himself hunted his ex-general in person. Both arms heft with palms facing the sullen sky, he invoked divine assistance, forging a promise to assuage the king of the gods. 'O Father of gods and men who held the Aegis, surely you see how my people suffer from your golden throne in heaven most high. If you still have any pity left to a man who piously burnt offerings for you in the past and will continue to do so in the future, stir in me unwearying strength so that I shall be able to vanquish those who have dishonoured Eretria!'

After imploring this prayer, Imbrasus threw his javelin at Squalo, unknowing that Zeus shook his head in refusal. As a result for ignoring the god's earlier warning—the single strike of lightning from the sky—the king's weapon fell harmlessly not to close from where the fisherman's foster son was standing.

As some of the surviving portions of the army made an attempt to flee, King Imbrasus declared, 'We are not defying the will of some divine gods; the storm with its thunder and lightning is a mere work of those barbarians' sorcery. Run today and your families _will_ see your corpses hung on trees tomorrow!'

The escapees checked their steps. Hesitant looks occupied the foot soldiers' faces as they were trying to decide which of the two options would deliver their death more painlessly. In the end, most of them stayed, praying in their hearts that the monstrous enemy could only do the trick once.

But Fran and Lussuria had returned from getting the horses out of harm's way. The child blew, and from his mouth came forth purple mist. Flinging his arm, Belphegor delivered the mist onto the Eretrians by means of the wind. Squalo wouldn't have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes: every Eretrian soldier who inhaled the vaporous mist took up arms and charged at his own comrade. At least two hundred of them stabbed one another in frenzy, as though they were slaughtering enemies instead. Some corpses were so severely stomped that they became barely recognisable; others, looked like blood-bathed scarecrows on the field of death with spear poles poking from their flesh. No longer were the grasses green, but tainted with crimson.

The mist whisperer, however, did not have the luxury to watch the fruit of his art. He could have impaired more number of Eretrians had he not been that exhausted—having used his mist thrice in a day and in a large quantity at that. Nonetheless, as he was now, he swooned. The golden-haired wind blower caught the young boy's body before it fell and slung it over his shoulder, carrying it to where their horses were.

Lussuria, on the other hand, chose to dance. First, he tied up his full-length chiton out of the way. Then, daintily, no less graceful than the choicest of the royal dancers, he twirled and gyrated, moving from one Eretrian soldier to another. And with every step he took, he also touched those Eretrians. His fingers did not linger long on their skin, no longer than eye could blink, yet that ephemeral moment was enough to transmit a significant amount of searing heat. Even though Lussuria only touched one point on each body, the soldiers felt their whole bodies come into contact with raging fire and their armour played no role in protecting them at all. No skin was free from scorch by the time Lussuria finished dancing—not even the king who sat upon his high chariot.

Many a cumbrous shield lay abandoned as their owners rushed onto the nearer of the two streams that bordered the plain in hope to soothe their inflammation. Xanxus let them be, only to set the river ablaze. The stream belched with steams and burnt alive all who plunged themselves into it, first by boiling, then by roasting, for the bubbling water was soon replaced by smoky flames. King Imbrasus and some thirty other men made it out alive although their limbs could hardly support them to walk, their skin festering with purulence.

'Sire, would it not be wiser to retreat? More than half of us have fallen even before we reach this river and now, not much unlike the meat prepared for a feast, another hundred are burnt in this Pyriphlegethon-like river. No longer in the prime of your manhood as you are, it is plain to see we are outmatched,' asseverated one of the surviving soldiers, lying low amidst the shrubs in hope to escape from the enemy's searching gaze.

Before Imbrasus delivered his answer, the Prince of Lydia approached the injured ruler of the Eretrian. In fear and agony, the king cried out, 'Aristomedon, protect me!'

But the newly appointed general only had the courage of a mouse to match his bull-like frame. Thanking his luck for being one of the few who had not come down the river and hence unscathed, the son of Neocles ran to save his own skin.

Xanxus changed his course at once into pursuing Aristomedon, who was screaming, 'No! Please spare me. It was not I who brought forth the idea of pursuing you.'

As his words fell to merciless ears, and his pursuer's heart did not waver, the prey cast his spear. His aim was never poor in this sport, for he started his career as a _peltastes_ —a shield-bearing javelineer—and his attack would have connected even now, had the Lydian not caught that spear bare-handed.

In desperate measure, the new general threw his huge round shield at Xanxus next. Notwithstanding, his adversary caught and hurled it back to him, aiming at the calves. If a normal rigorous athlete had thrown such shield, it would have knocked down the target with a thud at best. But with Xanxus' hands, the shield flew far enough to land more than a _plethron_ ahead of Aristomedon, slicing through the loathsome man's legs along with their _proknemes_ greaves of bronze in its rapid course.

Down, fell the cowardly son of Neocles. The blood from his severed tibial arteries besprinkled the grass below, but the blood of one more man counted very little since too much blood had been spilled that day. If the pain had not been enough to bring the lord-of-war to tears, the sight of his clean cut shin bone was. Now possessing no feet to support it, his body collapsed and the prince's figure towered him.

The purest hatred abided in Xanxus' gleam, and in a low, menacing voice, deeper than the deepest shade of shadow that loomed underneath his feet, the Prince of Sardis growled, 'You're the one who cut off Squalo's arm.'

Face pale with more fright which sank into the depth of his bones, Aristomedon drew his dagger—the only weapon he had left in possession—and tried in vain to stab Xanxus with it. The Lydian caught his wrist and twisted his arm until he emitted a hapless yelp.

Aristomedon's best friend, Melanthenes, who was among the few survivors, came to his succour by casting a battle axe towards Xanxus.

When the Lydian prince let go of the son of Neocles' wrist in order to dodge the axe, the Eretrian shuffled himself along with his two hands. He needed to get as far as possible from danger, away from this monstrous beast.

But his enemy approached with effortless strides.

Making a sickening attempt to display a pitiful expression, the coward pleaded, 'Forgive me please, mighty prince of Lydia. I am the only son in the family. My old father had high hopes on me. My mother wouldn't be able to live without me. My sisters still need me…'

A cold stare from dispassionate eyes met the timorous man's plea, and before he knew it, a hand had emerged from his stomach with a liver nestling amongst the Lydian's blood-stained fingers.

'I am not going to let you die so quickly, scum,' affirmed the Prince of Sardis as he crushed the liver into lumps of broken entrails, 'Suffer!'

With that, the son of Xanthias incinerated those lumps. A grin graced his scarred face as he watched Aristomedon gape in horror at the hole in his stomach and at his own liver being reduced to ash.

The other surviving Eretrians scampered in terror, but their exit was sealed. Xanxus summoned a gargantuan white lion with tiger stripes, which obstructed the way on the other end. The horses neighed and galloped in horror, snorting with mad fear. The soldiers who had not neglected their weapons brandished their swords and hurled their spears; those who were weaponless picked the nearest stones. None of these scratched the liger's skin. Instead, it opened its mouth and spouted fire—the fire which consumed all, save for its master: a lone man walked through the flames among the sound of screams and the acrid odour of burning flesh and bones and sight of the bodies that turned into corpses. Everywhere was fire, blood and shrieks of terror.

'The gods grant that you may enjoy being slave to the Achaeans!' cursed the King of Eretria as he threw his good ashen spear at Xanxus before he closed his eyes forever, drowned in flames.

Xanxus made no effort to evade as he relinquished the fiery river and its bank to walk back onto the bloodstained field. The king's spear tore no more than a small portion of his robe.

The remaining cavalrymen on the field spurred their steeds to carry them in flight. The steeds did succeed, but their masters did not. Belphegor's knives found their way into the uncovered flesh on the narrow gaps between joints of the soldiers' armour. Life ebbed away from the horsemen and their souls Pluton welcomed with open arms in his enormous hall of drowsy shades.

This left Squalo to deal with the rest of the soldiers who were still standing on the plain. Picking an abandoned sword from the ground, the ex-Eretrian general ran it through the nearest _aichmophoros_ spear-bearer standing until the man rose no more.

It hurt.

He saw not which face was concealed underneath that helmet, but whichever it was, it belonged to one of the men who used to share the dining hall and practised on the same lawn as he instead of some unknown man from a different tribe whom he first saw that day. The next thrust was going to hurt more, but it was either that or give up his life in the next opponent's hand.

Wherever Squalo stepped, splatters of crimson painted his skin afterwards. The men, who used to serve under him and were familiar with his warlike spirit, knew that this was the end for them; from their terror-stricken bodies, streamed blood and sweat. This was no battle, but a sheer slaughter. When the son of Polymedes swung his sword, his adversaries went down like wheat to the reaper's sickle. For years, the ex-general had been eminent among all others in terms of speed and power. The fact that he had only one arm now, and carried no shield because of that, only allowed him to move faster. More and more Eretrian blood Squalo drew, even though his heart was immersed with anguish each time he did so. Yet none of this anguish tormented him as much as when he had to stab the wielder of a certain arm protector.

The _cheir_ was dented with a large diagonal cut—Squalo recognised it so well, for he was fighting by its owner's side against the Lacedaemonians the previous winter when an enemy warrior slashed Leipylus' arm protector as a parting gift. Leipylus was not a gifted soldier, but he always strove harder than the others to make up what he lacked, and this was exactly why the son of Polymedes became fonder of the younger man more than of any other Eretrian soldiers. He treated him like a little brother he'd never had and the diligent boy would return the general's kindness with devotion—Squalo had always been an aspiration to Leipylus.

Even now, Leipylus' loyalty to his general had not crumbled. While Squalo's other fellow Eretrians resisted him, Leipylus just stood there as the deft-handed son of Polymedes delivered his first and final thrust.

Gripping the sword in his hand tight, the long-haired man tried not to think of what sort of expression valorous Leipylus had made underneath his heavy helmet. Squalo's blade of bronze became heavier now that his dearest comrade's blood flowed on it.

_In trust and brotherhood it helps to say whom it is one dies for. Farewell, brother._

The anguish stung so fervidly Squalo wished the sky would pour the rain down to chill his agony. And it did.

Every single cell of his blood flared up. He became one with nature. A heavenly scent arose, so that all the soldiers were seized with wonder when they sensed it. Then Squalo could feel how downpour tumbled as he willed it.

Within minutes, the ground was engulfed in water and when this became ankle-height, Leviathan knelt and placed his palms on the mud. Thunders gushed from the tips of his fingers, streaming through the water and electrocuting to the remaining forty Eretrian soldiers who were still standing.

Rain still pounded the hard ground, yet the sky was fringed with crimson.

* * *

CHAPTER VII

**The Demi-Gods Assembled**

The colour of the sky deepened, signifying the transition of Hemera's lustrous reign to Nyx' shadowy one. The scent of blood had invited the vultures, who were now flying in circles in the sky, to many scattered corpses on the battlefield. Of the hundreds who were involved in the war, only six survived.

The only Eretrian standing, Squalo son of Polymedes, walked amidst the dead bodies unto the Prince of Sardis, grabbed him by the tunic, and addressed him thus, 'You could control horses and even a liger, and yet you made no effort to get our horses to cross the river in a speedier course. In fact, you even tarried after crossing that river. You let this war break out, no, you _made sure_ it happened! Did it entertain you so much to have me drenched in my fellow countrymen's blood?!'

Leviathan shifted, ready to defend his master from the formerly Eretrian general, but Lussuria held him tenderly by the wrist, his head shaking in a silent gesture so as not to interfere Xanxus and Squalo's discourse, no matter how violent it could grow.

The son of Polymedes did not repress his tone. The distance between their faces was so close that the stench of their opponents' blood which formed streaks and splatters across their faces and bodies saluted each other's nostrils. Yet Xanxus did not even blink at the sight of the dire fury in Squalo's eyes.

Perhaps it was the waves of exhaustion that washed over him after using such enormous power or perhaps it was something else beyond the son of Polymedes' comprehension, but the Prince of Lydia did not bicker back in his answer. 'Imbrasus would attack Sardis if I did not battle him here. This is my battle; I am not going to involve Luddu.'

'Then why bother to lure the entire battalion here? You could have challenged him at the palace!'

'And massacred the women, children, elderly, slaves and everyone else in the process if the king resisted?'

The silver head did not answer. When Achaeans went on a raid, the civilians and their properties would become spoils of war. That someone as savage as Xanxus actually cared about the civilians' safety seemed as a remote possibility to Squalo's eyes.

'We did not even need to go to the palace had you not fallen for my illusion. We were not really captured, you know. What you saw back then was my mist. Yet, you told those false figures to run away with Xanxus and let yourself be captured,' explained Fran, who had just returned with their horses.

Squalo turned. His emotion nearly got the better of him and his mouth was itching to spout, 'You could achieve such a feat?' Yet, his reasoning knew better than to doubt the demonstrations of the child's aptitude thus far.

Letting go of his grip from Xanxus' garment with a huff, the son of Polyedes then walked away, secluding himself from the rest into a different direction.

'Come with me!' The scarred man called for him.

To which the long haired man mocked, 'What need have you for a one-armed man? If you just need to share body heat, you might as well invite a real whore elsewhither!'

The Lydian did not answer immediately, and the Eretrian swerved back to leave. Just after one step, he felt a weight clinging on his shoulder: Xanxus' fingers were clawing him.

'What?!' Squalo shouted indignantly.

It was discernible that Xanxus was clenching his jaw, but since the son of Xanthias would not speak his mind still, the younger of them made a sardonic remark, 'Am I more to you than all the wealth of sun-girt Sardis?'

The prince snarled, but his voice was ferinely unwavering. 'What _if_ I say you are?'

Many men wove false words to please the ear of the listeners, but Xanxus was not one of them. Thus, upon hearing this, the Lydian prince's four followers gawked.

Squalo's eyes widened in disbelief. With all his might, he masked the joviality that secretly soared within him with pretentious rebukes, 'You are mad. How…' But the rest of his words were swallowed by the sea of absolute sooty blackness that was Xanxus' eyes—the very eyes which beheld him as though gold had no esteem to compare with his silver hair.

The son of Polymedes looked away. His one-armed self felt unworthy to be cherished by a man destined to rule the world, or at least the one he deemed to be so. He drew his sword and set its blade against the strands of his silver hair.

As the first lock of Squalo's hair fell on the ground, Xanxus enquired in a demanding tone, 'What are you doing?'

'I made an oath once, that I would not cut this hair until I become the strongest swordsman in the world. Now I only have one arm intact; so long for such a far-fetched dream. I will just have to live a quiet life as meagre fisherman.'

'Lussuria,' called Xanxus.

The prince's follower stepped forth, carefully lifting the edge of his _himation_ to ensure it would not touch the muddy ground. 'Yes, my lord.'

'Give this man an artificial arm and heal his wounds.'

Obeying his lord's adjuration, the man removed the blindfold from his face. His eyelids were shut at first, but when he opened them, they shone so fulgently that Squalo had to turn his gaze away. Even so, he was sure that the blazing eyes stared at him intensely, as he sensed warmth on every place he had been injured, but most of all, on his amputated arm.

'You can … your eyes…' In his amazement, the son of Polymedes was close to stuttering. But he asked no more, for his healer was murmuring some incantation unfamiliar to his ears.

Little by little, Squalo felt flesh forming in the place which used to be his right arm. It looked exactly the same as his arm before it had been cut off; there was no sign of artificiality at all. He moved his fingers and grasped a bit of earth around his feet. It felt so real. Not only that, the mark of the hot iron on his stomach, the battle cuts and scars, all vanished without a trace. His skin was no less smoother than a new-born babe.

The silver-haired man burst into laughter—the first time he had laughed in days. He had assumed that all his aspirations would dissolve like smoke in the wind the moment he had lost his arm, but now those dreams were restored to him.

The healer wrapped his eyes with the thin blindfold again and Squalo had the feeling that rather than for the sake of fashion as he had claimed, Lussuria might actually do this to restrain his healing power, so that his eyes would not heal every single object within sight.

Belphegor rose to speak, 'I shall hunt for our dinner.' Therewith, he disappeared into the empty spaces of the night.

While the golden-haired youth was gone, Lussuria began, 'The immortals granted the power to strike down thunderbolts to the son of Zeus, the miracle of healing to the son of Apollo, and the authority to gather storm to the son of Boreas, and the glory of heaven to the son of Uranus.'

'You mean Leviathan is Zeus' offspring? And you, Apollo's? And Bel, Boreas'? Putting those aside, Uranus was castrated aeons ago; he couldn't have fathered Xanxus! And whose son is Fran?' Squalo's raised brow voiced his incredulity conspicuously enough.

Then, patiently, the blindfolded man explained, 'Since you are inclined to ask the story of our origins, and rekindle our memories in respect of them, I shall convey it you to the fullest of my memory could offer. Fran's parentage is as mysterious as the mist he himself manipulated. He could be the progeny of a dryad, or perhaps he was born out of an unmarried mortal woman who abandoned him in the woods out of shame. At any rate, he raised himself in the wilderness in Chios, suckling on a doe as baby. He lived with deer until wolves tore down the herd when he was barely six years old. It was then he learnt that animated creatures were the sources of meat. He learnt how to hunt, and in a year, he devoured the wolves that devoured the deer herd by whom he was raised.

On his eighth summer, he found a cave that emitted strange mist. In it, he met a trident-wielding heterochromatic man who identified himself as "Necros." This Necros was the one who taught Fran how to conjure mist to create illusions and to close the eyelids of mankind with sleep.'

'How Fran longed to see Necros again!' Lussuria continued with a heavy sigh, 'Alas, we know nothing of his whereabouts.'

'What happened to him?'

'One day, a stranger with hair as white as snow and a unique purple birthmark on his left cheek came by, saying, "I have been searching for you" to Necros and they both disappeared without a trace afterwards.'

'That _is_ peculiar.'

'Strange as it sounds, it is true, Squalo dear.' Lussuria dabbed Squalo lightly on the nose. 'Our Fran is not a liar.'

'Hey, do not make a habit out of touching me!' reprimanded the long haired man.

The epicene giggled before moving on to the next story. 'Belphegor of Icaria was raised as a prince—not the crown prince, but still. His mother was a naiad whose voice was as melodious as a flowing river. Boreas was captivated with her beauty even though she had been married to a human king. But the god of the west wind would not yield his pursuit without sharing the bed with the naiad of his dream at least once. Thence, when King Euphorbus was out hunting, Boreas assumed his form and lay with fair Eteoclea. Alas, in the same morning, before handsome Euphorbus left for the hunt, his body had joined with his wife in fiery passion.

In the ninth month, Eilythia gave her blessing to twin baby boys from Eteoclea's womb. One was Rasiel, sired by Euphorbus; the other was Belphegor, by Boreas. At first, their mother could not distinguish this, but at the age of three, Belphegor started to show the symptoms that he could manipulate wind. At the age of five, when Rasiel broke Belphegor's favourite toy, a storm loomed over Icaria for three days and three nights.

Thenceforward, the queen began to treat her sons differently; she cherished Rasiel like a mother should, but pretended that Belphegor never existed. Nobody seemed to mind, given that Rasiel, the older twin, was the crown prince by default. The Belphegor you see here, Squalo, was raised without love. Euphorbus only made sure Belphegor were given food and clothing and all other mundane necessities out of fear of angering Boreas.

During our visit in Icaria, Xanxus, Leviathan and I slew a water serpent, more known as "hydrus" amongst mankind, which had constantly devoured some local farmers' cattle. That's how Belphegor came to admire us, especially Xanxus. The royal family did not prevent Belphegor from joining us; in fact, it might be their greatest support for him.'

Squalo cast one look of pity at the young prince. Compared to someone who was showered with gold but thirsty for love, he was more fortunate by far. His surrogate father was a meagre fisherman who took him regardless of his unknown origin and raised him lovingly.

'And what of your tale?' Squalo asked Lussuria.

'Oho,' the _laikaleos_ man of the effeminate nature smiled so brightly Squalo could almost see the twinkle in Lussuria's eyes behind the blindfold. 'You r-e-a-l-l-y want to know?'

The son of Polymedes never had the patience to be teased. 'Forget it!'

Squalo almost rose to his feet, but Lussuria held him by both shoulders, pushing him back to sitting again. The silver-haired man could only marvel at the hidden strength that lay within the effeminate man's arms. 'Oh Squalo, you are absolutely adorable in your chagrin. As a gift, I shall tell you my story.'

Lussuria cleared his throat. 'It all began with one summer night when the far-shooting Clarian Apollo met the nymph of his fate at sandy Lesbos—'

'Apollo must have many fates then,' snorted the ex-Eretrian general.

'Squalo, you bad boy, how dare you bully my dad!' pouted Lussuria with a light smack on the son of Polymedes' shoulder.

'By the bye,' continued the epicene, 'A stag raced with the arrow of the god, darting so swiftly it almost collided into Iphixaura of the lovely scent—the nymph who would then become my mother. Apollo of the golden smile ceased his hunt a once, and accosted the nymph. The result, well, as you can see, here I am.'

Squalo rolled his eyes. But they caught glimpse of Belphegor's arrival as he did so. A deer was on the youth's shoulder, four knives embedded on its carcass.

 _That was really quick._ Squalo wondered how Belphegor managed to catch a deer in such short period, but then again, his speed had been preternatural to begin with, perhaps his speed could even rival Artemis of the silver quiver.

'Just press on to the part where you encounter Xanxus,' Squalo told Lussuria as Belphegor started skinning the deer.

'Ah, 'twas a deep starry night when the gentle Notus blew his moist wind…' Lussuria answered dreamily, '… and I was at sea. I decided to leave my homeland to explore the world, you see. Then agitation stirred the ship I was in. One passenger, who was an old astronomer, noticed, based on the position of the constellations, that the ship's course was different from the one supposedly taken for our destination, Sicyon. He notified the captain first, but the burly man laughed him off. He did not give up and woke everyone on board, but they took this as a senile man's blabber and went back to sleep. Even I myself did the same—I'm ashamed to admit.' Lussuria's shoulders drooped down as he heaved a sigh.

'Everyone makes mistakes; why let such triviality weigh your mind?'

The effeminate man rose from his seat and made an attempt to kiss his listener's cheek. 'Aw Squalo, you're such a sweet—'

But the impatient man pushed him by the chin. 'ON WITH THE STORY!'

Lussuria settled with blowing his kiss into the air at Squalo's direction first before going back to his tale. 'The next morning, the ship landed on Paphos and we began to regret why we had not taken the astronomer's warning into consideration. But that was not all. The ship's crew had arranged a deal with the local slave trader to make commodity out of us.'

'Let me guess,' interrupted Squalo, 'Xanxus and Leviathan just happened to pass by and rescued you?'

'No, they were among the passengers, but yes, they defeated all of those slave trader's minions and the ship's crew. They were seriously injured, though, and I healed them as a gratitude for saving my exquisite skin from the weapons of those brutes.'

At that moment, a fly flew near Xanxus' ear and Leviathan leapt to crush it between his palms. The fly escaped in the nick of time and Xanxus glared furiously because of the noise Leviathan had just made.

'And what of Levi's tale?'

'At first, Leviathan was raised as one of the sons of an illustrious philosopher in Astypalaea, whence he originated. It troubled his mortal father that he inherited none of his father's wisdom, but Thelxiopus had other sons to follow his steps. Levi's mother, Amphidoce was the far descendant of the giant Porphyrion and through this blood he acquired superior height to most other men. Of all Amphidoce's other children, none bore this feature, for it was Leviathan alone who was sired by a deity.

Leviathan used to be made fun by everyone around him because of his abnormal height; only birds and small animals were comfortable with his gentle heart. He had not realised his power until he was fifteen years of age, when the bully became too harsh and took the lives of Levi's precious pets. At the sight of the carcasses, Leviathan summoned lightning out of grief and blasted the seven boys who killed his dear pets. The boys' parents tried to stone him to death in retribution for their deceased sons, but once again, the terrified Leviathan subconsciously summoned lightning to blast his assaulters.

The Astypalaeans, including Levi's family, secluded him ever since. He lived alone in the mountains and was saved by Xanxus when he was almost killed by a triple-headed giant who was the grandson of Geryon. Apparently, that was the first time he was treated like a normal human being. Needless to say, he swore his allegiance to our lord ever since.'

'And just like Leviathan, Squalo, you are the son of Aegis-bearing Zeus, the bringer of rain.'

It was not Lussuria, but another man who stated this. His radiance outshone the scintillating stars in the firmament above them. His curly hair was partly covered by the large brimmed _petasos_ hat slung hanging down his back. His faithful caduceus of a staff with entwined serpents hung neatly from the girdle of his chitoniskos. So light were his steps, and only later it came to the men's realisation that the stranger wore _talaria_ winged sandals.

They had not realised him coming, and now, in spite of his amiable smile, something about his presence roused a feeling of inferiority within any mortal being that breathed and moved: it was as though they had been soiled and dirty and unworthy to meet this entity.

'Hail Lord Hermes.' All who were present acknowledged the stranger, all except one.

Squalo knew he should do likewise, but the tiding the god bore was far too overwhelming for him. A weak murmur escaped from his lips, 'Son of Zeus … what do you mean by that?'

'Exactly as it is,' corroborated the god merrily, 'You are my half-brother.'

'I? The son of a god?' Squalo's voice trembled with incredulity.

'Yes, dimwit. Your half divinity has always been the general solution. How could you summon rain otherwise? And why else weren't you affected by Leviathan's lightning and Fran's mist?'

Now the silver-haired man understood why rain seemed to follow him anytime he was upset. Swallowing hard, he enquired further, 'Then who is my mother?'

'An oceanid known as Nausithoe by name. She passed away while delivering your birth, and, like all other oceanides, she turned into sea foams. However, even in the form of foams, her soul still protected you; it was she who moved the waves to bring you to near Polymedes' boat, knowing his kindly nature.'

Squalo felt his knees giving away, so he tottered to the side and slumped into pensive thinking.

Hermes, on the other hand, addressed the rest of the men, 'I do not come here today to speak of your parentage. Nay, I am here to give you choices as are willed by your parents, the gods.'

This caught Fran's attention more than the rest. 'No exception?'

'No.' Hermes smiled and patted the boy on the head. 'Your parents are immortals too, o son of Mist and Nyx.' Then the god chuckled, 'Yes, that's right: Xanxus and Belphegor are your cousins; Leviathan and Squalo, your nephews; and Lussuria, your grand-nephew.'

 _That makes me Xanxus' nephew too, since Zeus is Uranus' grandson._ Squalo closed his eyes with both hands covering his head, imagining how awkward it would be for him to address Xanxus, Belphegor and Fran as 'uncles' and to be called 'uncle' himself by Lussuria.

The lord of mischief spoke again, 'Now, the immortals want to ensure that their descendants get the choices all demi-gods deserve. On the one hand, mortals are allotted one fate—there are very few exceptions for those who were given the chance to choose between two or more paths of life; on the other, demi-gods are nearly always required to choose between two. The most famous example of which is that of Achilles, who chose a short but glorious life over a long but ordinary life.'

The _Argeiphontes_ gently placed his hands on the little boy's shoulders. 'Tell me, enigmatic son of Mist, between following Xanxus and Necros, which one will you choose? For their paths are not destined to cross in this life; by following one, you cannot meet the other.'

The frog-hooded boy's gaze became downcast. On the ground, the ants were carrying the carcass of a grasshopper back into their hole.

'Master Necros was very kind to me…' the boy said in a whispery voice, and then turned his gaze onto Xanxus and his followers, '… but they have become my family. I shall stay with them.'

The god accosted Belphegor next. 'Prodigious son of Boreas, if you are to choose whether to remain in this band or be given someone who truly loves you until the day you die, what will your choice be?'

'I shall see to it that this "someone" loves me with my own hands, for it is preposterous to seek any divine assistance for that which one has the capacity to acquire by one's self.' The golden-haired youth answered with a confident smile, but the keen-sighted god of theft could not be fooled; Hermes knew well that Belphegor glimpsed uneasily at Fran from the corner of his eyes.

With a smirk still lingering on his countenance, the god of travel approached Lussuria next. 'Alterative son of Apollo, it is necessary for you to choose to exercise your healing power next to the Delphic oracle, who knew things past, present and to come, and therefore be renowned far and wide or to explore the world with your current comrades. Should you choose the first, your name will be remembered in many a heart, just like your predecessor, your half-brother, Trophonius, who built the temple in Delphi in honour of your father. Be that the second option gain your favour, you shall cross seven oceans and visit the places no other Danaans have reached before, but your glory will be silenced as Xanxus sees it fit.'

'Daddy has offered me such a generous treat…,' Lussuria placed both hands to cover his cheeks, which were dabbed with genuine blush, '…I am soooo grateful to him. Please tell him that I am happy with the company I'm keeping.'

When the god of trade turned to Levi, the tall man made a useless attempt to hide his head between his broad shoulders, as though he could have become smaller by doing such thing.

'I am not going to hurt you, gentle-hearted son of Zeus and my half-brother,' chuckled the _Criophorus_ , 'Choose: will you gain respect and be treated as a human rather than a monster or will you be part of this little band here for the rest of your life?'

'Uh,' Leviathan stole a glance at Xanxus and the rest of his companions before beginning to voice his answer timidly, 'I will try my best to keep my friends from harm.'

'Proud son of Zeus and my other half-brother,' called the psychopomp of the spirits of the dead, 'Your choice will be between boundless illustriousness and continuous comfort. Should you choose the former option, the might of your sword will be known throughout the tribes of men far and near, but if you prefer the latter, Zeus himself will make sure that Tyche showered you with plenty of luck and wealth from the Horn of Amalthea.'

'That,' Squalo glimpsed contently at his new arm while he answered with a smirk—for one split second, he forgot to behave before a god, for this subject was his deepest desire which weighed more than life itself, 'should have been obvious. I choose the path of sword.' Only then, the mortal remembered his position and tried to amend his mistake. 'Lord Hermes,' he added with more reverence.

The god smiled with satisfaction. 'That leaves only you, son of Uranus. The choices that are about to be given to you have caused many disputes among the gods—after all, it is never a light matter to offer immortality with eternal youth…'

All eyes were riveted upon Hermes, all ears were eager to listen whether the divine messenger was going to declare his speech null and void. But he did not. And he did not need to. Xanxus declared a firm 'no.'

The curly haired god continued, 'Pity, some of the gods saw the potentials of Heracles and Theseus reside within you. You kept quiet about of your achievements that most mortals were unaware of them, but we, gods, know that you slew a basilisk at the age of five; a griffon at the age of seven; a chimera six months later; and lots more besides.'

Xanxus cast his glance away, but the other demi-gods were eyeing Hermes earnestly, marvelling at each word.

'Let me tell you a tale of old, of time passing, of what betided the race of titans and gods,' said the divine Olympian, 'As a result of the castration of Uranus, the Erinyes, several giants and dendroid divinities sprung from the blood that fell upon the earth. Xanxus, you were one of them; however, being born in such time of revolution, it was not uncommon for the giants to devour their own siblings. One of your sisters, the ash tree dryad Perictesylla, concealed you inside her trunk. This is the reason you remain invulnerable to any weapon made of ash.

Perictesylla would have kept you hidden longer, but back then, the earth suffered grave damage from the war between the gods and the giants. The forest was caught on fire and the safest way to keep you alive was by turning you into an ashen seed.

Centuries later, your mortal mother, Nyctimene, prayed so earnestly to Gaia to be blessed with a son. Thus, through a dream, bountiful Gaia admonished her to find the Perictesylla tree and to procure one particular seed with the colour of gold and to consume that seed. Nyctimene made sure she swallowed the seed in the same day as the King of Lydia shared her bed and she bore you nine months later. Yea, son of Uranus, you were twice born, but contrary to Zagreus, who was first born out of mortal Semele's lifeless womb and then reborn from Zeus' thigh as Dionysus, you were born by Gaia first, and then by a mortal mother.

Xanthias knew that he was sterile; whichever of his concubines was with child must mean that the child belonged to someone else. He pretended to be overjoyed to hear Nyctimene's pregnancy and raised her status from a mere concubine to a queen, but never touched her anymore in bed. In fact, he often abused her. One of his personal guards felt sympathetic towards Nyctimene and, as the years went by, the sympathy blossomed into love, and the love was reciprocal.

On your sixth autumn, Xanthias caught them in bed and secretly ordained their doom. Much though he suspected that you were his guard's son, he wouldn't lift a finger at you, since he needed a son as an heir to his throne.'

Xanxus spoke nothing. Nonetheless, it took no divine power to comprehend the 'I do not give a damn about that' in his gleam.

The wielder of caduceus smiled and Xanxus' followers were anxious to figure out whether the smile meant 'That's all right, I understand you are agitated about your parents' or 'You will learn that nobody who offends a god shall go with impunity!'

'Very well,' said the swift messenger of the god without losing the geniality in his tone, 'Since you'd rather not live as an immortal, what sort of life would you like to lead after rebirth? Do you fancy becoming a ruler of some country? Or do you prefer a quiet, religious life? Or perhaps you have a secret desire for scientific pursue?'

Xanxus' glance swept across the other demi-gods, and they all thought he was going to choose the first option, but the Prince of Lydia took his time to answer. 'The one that would allow me to live together with them again.'

'So be it,' affirmed Hermes of the spry feet.

Judging from the smirk that graced Lusuria's lips, he must have realised that Xanxus' eyes had lingered on the ex-General of Eretria a second longer than on the rest of them.

'Before I go, I shall relay a message from your mother's spirit. She said sorry for not telling you about her affair sooner. She and her paramour were planning to escape from the palace carrying you, but they had been caught before this plan could be executed.'

After the resourceful son of Maia had gone back to celestial Olympus, and the demi-gods had sat around a fire with the fragrant smoke of their roasted hunt curling up towards the field of stars above, Lussuria said quietly, 'Xanxus, is your heart steadfast enough for this? The tripod of Apollo never tells a lie.'

All the sissiness was gone from his voice. Squalo had never seen this man this serious before. But Xanxus answered him in a casual fashion, 'Since when do I care about prophecies?'

'Hey, what's this all about?' asked Squalo.

Ignoring this enquiry, Xanxus returned to his venison leg.

'Hey!' urged Squalo.

It was Leviathan who voiced the reply, 'Once, we slew some _striges_ in Thermopylae and one of the prospective victims happened to be a child of Apollo. As a gratitude for saving his life, he told each of us a prophecy. The one for Xanxus says:

"From five different lands they shall gather,

United, they shall prove your most loyal companions,

Divided, they shall be your harbingers of death."

Of course, with only four of us, we need not worry that this prophecy shall come true, but if our number increases to five…' Leviathan did not continue his sentence; he would not even meet Squalo's eyes.

Turning his gaze to the dancing flame of fire, Squalo continued eating in silence. As soon as he finished dinner, he stood and remarked, 'This is where we part.'

None of them was not astonished by Squalo's statement, but even this was not as surprising as what Xanxus did next. One hand grabbing the silver-haired man's leg, the son of Uranus declared, 'Everyone will perish in the end; I do not give a damn how I'll die. I am the master of my own fate.'

Xanxus went back to his _Meswak_ chewing stick as soon as he finished speaking, cleansing the remnants of meat from his mouth.

' _I_ CARE!' snapped Squalo as he brushed Xanxus' grip off his leg with a hard kick. Again, he made an attempt to leave, but again, Xanxus hindered him.

'You think I'll cringe in fear just because five men follow me?'

At the prince's words, his four followers rose to their feet and began to walk away.

'See?!' rebuked Squalo, 'They care for your safety too. If I do not leave, they will.'

'No, dear, we are just going to arrange a ship and food supply for the six of us,' Lussuria reiterated in a rather cheeky tone, 'Just stay there; you need convincing in private.'

'Hey, what's that supposed to mean?!'

But Xanxus answered it for him through a rough kiss. He pulled his eromenos so hard that the younger man fell upon his chest with a thud, and then his other hand secured the small of Squalo's back. His tongue showed no mercy, and his embrace reflected exactly how covetous he was for this son of Zeus.

It did not take long for Xanxus' dextrous fingers to disentangle Squalo from the confinement of his exomis. When the erastes groped his bums, the silver head _almost_ wished he'd gasp in surprise—it would have been less humiliating than the promiscuous moan currently verbalised by his ignominious throat. With one rapid move, the Lydian prince grasped his eromenos' wrists behind his back, while his mouth assaulted the younger man in a long succession of esurient kisses.

'Our bodies are still begrimed with blood and dirt from the battlefield,' Squalo reminded Xanxus as the latter's mouth descended to his neck albeit he could feel their manhood hardening in protrusion.

The prince ceased his movements to stare at the younger man. As always, Xanxus' gaze was so intense it made Squalo's whole body trembled with desire: for one moment he thought, wished, the erastes would violate him on the spot; after all, his years of serving in the military had taught him that sex always tasted better after battle.

Instead, the older man replied, 'Then we shall bathe together.'

The silver head doubted that their bath was going to include _just_ bathing, but he followed his erastes, stepping in into the limpid river not too far from them. The two bodies dipped themselves into the water shimmering in the moonlight.

Yet, as the silent minutes passed by and the night wore on, even after they had cleansed themselves, Xanxus still had not touched him. Growing ever more impatient, Squalo decided to take the matter into his own hands. He waded across the water until he was one _dichos_ away from the older man's back and started kissing the raven's scars.

When the Prince of Sardis turned, his obsidian orbs gazing intently at the kisser, Squalo had a strange urge to gulp. Never before had he realised that a certain amount moon beams and droplets of water could make one appear as handsome as an immortal god.

_Your body..._

Squalo reached out for the divine form before him, but Xanxus caught him by the forearm and brushed his lips along that wet skin all the way to the younger man's sculpted chest.

_Your lust..._

It felt odd—how the swirling river water came along as Xanxus' tumid manhood tore its way inside him. The water was cold, but his erastes' touches were searing enough to put his body on fire.

_Your love..._

There was a difference, Squalo surmised, between the kiss they experienced now and that which they shared during their duel in the palaestra. Back then, he could only sense hunger when Xanxus' tongue delved into his mouth. Now, however, the older man did not only demand, but also gave. The loss of his father helped him to recognise that this gift was ' _caring'_ — genuine and unadulterated, as what was given by very few people who were not aiming for his wealth or fame.

_I shall take them all._

Encircling Xanxus' back were Squalo's arms; on Squalo's crook of the neck was Xanxus' chin.

'Follow me,' panted the older man, as he slumped onto his prey, letting their breath and sweat intermingle, while the current of water passed through; this course of water was nothing to the course of satiety that threatened to deluge him.

With Xanxus' flesh planted so deeply within his body, and his own legs encasing his lover, would Squalo say no?

'Follow you I shall.' _To the last drop of my blood. To the last draw of my breath._

A smile of triumph and joy graced the prince's countenance as he moved his lance inside his new subordinate again. Not failing to notice his silver-haired eromenos shutting his eyes and biting his lower lip, the raven head whispered, 'Proud son of Zeus, from this day on, I shall call you "Superbia".'

###

Two hours later, lurking in wait behind the thickness of the foliages, Xanxus' four followers watched the scene unfold.

'See, I told you the sound from the other day was from sex, not from a strangled chicken.' Lussuria sneered triumphantly at the rest of Xanxus' followers.

'Ushishishishi, I would not have believed it if my very own eyes have not witnessed it.'

This was supposed to be their meeting point, yet they dared not make an appearance. Fifty steps away from them, at the bank of the rich-eddying river, on the upper part of an old tree bark, a beetle perched on top of another. Nonetheless, these two beetles were not the only ones who were mating. Below, two men were engaging themselves in the same Aphrodite's sport.

Squalo was facing the tree, his silver hair glinting in the moonlit night. Xanxus was immediately behind him, facing the same direction. Skin on skin, each was feeding his hunger with the other's frictions. The fugitive's left hand was pressed flat against the tree bark, fingers intertwined with his new employer's. The conqueror's other hand was tilting the younger man's thigh, facilitating wider aperture for his penetration.

'Xanxus, damn you—ahhh!'

More moans left the eromenos' mouth as his erastes' teeth found their way onto his shoulder. The long-haired man was standing on his toes and his back couldn't be prevented from arching, but the Prince of Lydia tightened his clench on ex-Eretrian general's fingers without denigrating his anal invasion.

They had built fire and hung their drenched clothes on a tree branch above it to dry. But to Squalo, at times like this, the heat of the flame was insignificant to the solid heat that kept rushing in and out of his body.

'XANXUS!' As Squalo cried out the name, his essence sprayed the tree bark before him.

The erastes emitted none other than a grunt; a part of him was still slipping in and out of the younger man's aperture.

'I shall … _ah_ … grow my hair again and … _ah_ … this time … I shall let nobody … cut it … _ah_ … for as long as … my loyalty for you … _ahhh_ … does not waver.'

Again, the older man did not answer with words. His lips nipped the nape where Squlao's freshly cut hair exposed in a bite that could only be classified as 'too gentle' for his usual standard.

The son of Zeus closed his eyes, for he felt the sky floating below his feet. Whenever the son of Uranus did this sort of thing to him, a strange fever enshrouded his whole being, flummoxing him in a degree no other male or female partner could affect him. He clawed the tree bark in frustration, and his ravisher held him even tighter.

'Hey, do you not think our lord has such a beautiful arse?' Lussuria commented again as his eyes followed Xanxus' few last to and fro movements before he drained himself inside Squalo.

Leviathan nodded in agreement, Fran rolled his eyes and Belphegor replied, 'Has there ever been a day when you say a man doesn't have a beautiful arse?'

However, Lussuria opted to change the subject, 'Aw, look at them … Xanxus is sooooo madly in love.'

'How do you know he is in love?' Leviathan enquired curiously.

'Oh, come on,' answered Lussuria, 'See the way he looks at Squalo.'

The others observed but then raised their brow.

Without losing his patience, Lussuria explained, 'The usual Xanxus seems grimmer whenever Squalo is nearby because he has to deny himself the luxury of basking in Squalo's beauty. But now, with Squalo backing him, Xanxus doesn't hold back his affection. Don't you think those eyes adore the son of Zeus?'

None of them was convinced by Lussuria's annotation.

'Oh all right, here is a more solid proof: did Xanxus ask any of us to follow him?' was Lussuria's reply to their sceptical gaze.

The four of them looked at one another and knew that the laikaleos was right.

'We all begged to follow him,' confirmed Levi.

'I did not _beg_!' Belphegor and Fran replied immediately in unison.

'Ho? Yes it was your sympathy and brotherly instinct that made Xanxus allow us to recruit Fran, Bel, but are you sure you are not familiar with: "O hydrus-slayer, let me follow you for as long as I breathe"?' sneered the oldest of them.

'Belphegor did say those words?' the frog-hooded child asked in amazement.

The blond developed a sudden interest for the beehive looming from a tree branch on the other bank of the river.

'Another proof,' asserted Lussuria, 'Has Xanxus ever been willing to spend his time with the same sleeping mate twice? Many men and women begged to be readmitted to our prince's bed, none of those wishes was granted. But in this Eretrian's case, Xanxus—on his own accord—is the one who seeks for him.' Lussuria gasped, and then his index finger pointed at the couple, 'Behold, now Squalo's hand is snaking and grasping Xanxus' hair! If this were someone else, what do you think Prince Xanxus would say?'

'Get your dirty hand out of my head!' suggested Bel.

Grinning broadly, Lussuria claimed, 'My point exactly.'

'Do you reckon this was why he ordered us to save Squalo at any cost?' enquired the thunder-casting son of Zeus again.

The blindfolded son of Apollo made his reply, 'What else can be the reason? Our prince is a man of actions rather than a man of words; it was his way of expressing "I cannot live without you, Squalo".'

'I cannot understand our lord's way of thinking,' commented the youngest of them.

'Ushishishi … a dope like you, unlike a genius like me, will never understand such things.'

'Now, now, Bel, that's not a nice thing to say.' Then Lussuria turned to Fran, 'Do carry on, dear.'

The green-caped boy in all honesty addressed them thus: 'I mean, Squalo may be handsome to behold, but he's very loud and noisy ... so barbaric. I shan't even be surprised if fracases become our daily bread if he joins our band. Why would Xanxus choose someone like that?'

Shoulders raised into a shrug, the laikaleos enunciated, 'Love works in a most peculiar way.'

* * *

EPILOGUE

'Love works in a most peculiar way. Look at them—how adorable! They always fight against each other, but now that they think they'll die, they cuddle.'

It was the same voice—Lussuria's, but the language spoken was Modern Italian instead of Archaic Greek, and Squalo's eyes snapped open at its sound.

Cheeks growing red even though he consumed no alcohol within the last six hours, the Varia squad captain hastily made an attempt to get off from his employer. Nevertheless, he staggered; his wounds weakened him.

'No sweetie, you must lie down still, I am not done healing you both.' Luss pushed Squalo back onto Xanxus' chest. Even Lussuria's gentle force was strong enough, and in times like this Squalo remembered that behind those sunglasses and effeminate attitude, hid a muscular man built by rigorous trainings of Muay Thai.

'Why are you here? Why didn't this place explode?' asked Squalo. His vision was still blurry, but he could make out the peacock-shaped colourful creature next to Lussuria as well as the corridor of Varia headquarters.

'We finished the mission early.' The epicene turned sideways. 'But we sure are lucky to have an ex-KGB agent in our bomb disarming team, don't you agree, Levi?'

Squalo saw Levi nodding before he closed his eyes again. He was so tired. Dog tired, dammit! Blame the enemies' recurrent attack when youthful stamina was no longer in his possession … though perhaps this might not share the blame as much as babysitting a certain moody, alcoholic, overgrown brat.

As soon as he was done, Luss, along with his Peacock of Serenity, stormed off to heal the others—a bit too precipitantly, perhaps—leaving the corridor desolated once again, save for the Varia leader and his second-in-command.

Squalo was still wondering whether the vision about the life in Archaic Greece was a mere dream or a past reality when he caught the unmistakable peer of Xanxus' eyes, accompanied with a moody growl, 'Are you going to stare at me all day?'

Realising that this was no empty accusation, the Sword Emperor got up to leave without saying a word.

Nonetheless, the hungry beast caught his prey by the hair and yanked it hard enough to send the hair's owner toppling back to the scarlet carpeted floor.

'VOI, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!'

But the predator let out a feral sneer. 'Scum, are you so dumb that you can't finish a single kiss?'

And just like that, their lips crashed together once again.

FINE

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs Amano Akira; this fiction has nothing to do with mythical names or real historical events  
> Credit: Thank you Creedkeeper, Emotive Gothika, Selena's_Magick & Noreht for beta-reading  
> This fanfic uses British English.  
> Necros = corpse — the Greek translation for 'Mukuro'; for those who are curious about where Mukuro goes, read my other fic called "For the Love of Hell".  
> Also, let me emphasise the reason for Squalo losing his left arm in this fic (as opposed to his right hand as stated in the canon series):  
> By severing Squalo's dominant hand, Aristomedon assumes that even if he needs to fight Squalo in the future, he'll win. Obviously, he has never defeated Squalo before and apparently, he also suspects that Squalo doesn't really commits treason. However, he'll do anything to boost his career, including getting rid of Squalo through slanders. In his Archaic Greek life, Squalo loses his right arm only; plus, the arm loss is only temporary because Lussuria then restores it in chapter 7. In his 21st-century Italy life, Squalo loses his left hand, but he wears a superficial hand.


End file.
